tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8559619040301357122018-03-06T03:21:59.942-05:00Ragged CompanyThe Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-72863999778112068852011-06-13T22:24:00.000-04:002011-06-13T22:24:16.977-04:00Don't Mind the Maggots: Episode 2Re-posted from comedy website&nbsp;<a href="http://www.nientepeaches.com/">Niente Peaches</a><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Zu1IYWhxTR8?feature=player_embedded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-11399403362544957372011-06-12T12:40:00.001-04:002011-06-12T12:42:45.427-04:00Don't Mind the Maggots: Episode 3Re-posted from comedy website&nbsp;<a href="http://nientepeaches.com/">NientePeaches</a>.<br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowFullScreen='true' webkitallowfullscreen='true' mozallowfullscreen='true' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/JNZrOsOy1iw?feature=player_embedded' FRAMEBORDER='0' /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-66075016061383371352010-10-31T22:21:00.001-04:002010-11-01T12:29:33.024-04:00Subway Vision<style>st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style><br /><div class="MsoNormal">Happy Halloween, everyone. At the time of writing, it’s 8:32 pm on October 31, and I’m shoeless on the couch writing on my laptop. I only point this out because it’s such an anomaly. My past seven October 31<sup>st</sup>s circa 8:32 have found me: a drunk cavemen, a drunk Titanic-passenger zombie (thanks Nick), a drunk train hobo asleep in the Atlantic ocean, a drunk <i>Geico </i>cavemen, a drunk un-costumed guy at my dad’s house, a un-costumed volunteer for a children’s party at a Methodist Church (and drunk) and a drunk classic television character getting ready to move to New York in a few hours. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Little different this year. Not that 2010 has been an uneventful Halloween weekend: I’ve already been a slightly buzzed crazy JetBlue flight attendant, a sober Peter Pan shadow, and a probably-should-have-been-drunk <i>Walter White</i> from Breaking Bad.&nbsp; It’s just that Halloween night falls on a Sunday and I have an actual job to attend in the morning and more importantly I have a blog quota to fill. So here I am, like Kobe, Doin’ Work. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This past Thursday I was at Port 41 in Hell’s Kitchen for the Brooklyn Comedy Underground’s one year birthday party.&nbsp; This was the second time I’ve performed at Port 41. The first was way back in July and was attended by none other then Boston rock legends The Okay Win. I had long regretted not blogging about that show because Port 41 is so... <em>unique.</em>&nbsp;When the opportunity came along to perform there again, I jumped on it, mainly so I’d be able to finally write about the one-of-a-kind Port 41 and its bikini-clad wait-staff. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Located a couple avenues west of the Port Authority, Port 41 is a relic of the pre-Rudy Giuliani Midtown. (Not a Midtown I ever experienced, of course. A Midtown a pubescent Gregory could only fantasize about in his wildest dreams.)&nbsp; Port 41 isn’t a strip club technically; the bartenders <i>are</i> wearing bikini tops and I’ve heard rumors there is underwear somewhere up there, tucked between there butt cheeks.&nbsp; But not being a strip joint does not “class up” Port 41. The lack of actual nudity does not make the proceedings any more tasteful or subtle. Port 41 is about as subtle as a roll of toilet paper next to the computer. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In other words, if you look up sleazy on Google Image, Port 41 comes up. The old saying was “if you look up [blank] in the dictionary…” or “if you look up [blank] in a textbook…” but since Google has rendered both those things irrelevant, I think the saying should be updated. Here’s the first image to come up when you Google-image “sleazy:”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TM4jkffp9nI/AAAAAAAAAEY/S9lMb9ITTg4/s1600/338755--sleazy-katie-a-caged-animal-says-pete.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TM4jkffp9nI/AAAAAAAAAEY/S9lMb9ITTg4/s320/338755--sleazy-katie-a-caged-animal-says-pete.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Not Port 41 exactly, but surprisingly close. &nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">(I like this new idea. I think I will try to do it once-a-blog.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t do well at places like Port 41. I’m awkward in general, but it’s completely exasperated in any situation involving scantily-clad women. Say what you will about strip-clubs, but at least the stripper – customer dichotomy has clearly set parameters: she exposes her vagina, I look at it. Easy-peasy. But any environment where the women are nearly naked <i>and</i> it’s inappropriate to gawk sets my conscience a-haywire. For one: I have absolutely no idea what to do with my eyeballs. I’m not making eye-contact with these ladies; I don’t want them peering into my soul and seeing the demons that lurk there. That’s for my loved ones to do.&nbsp; And secondly I haven’t any idea how to talk these women because I’m petrified they are going to think I’m another&nbsp;creep trying to hit on them, so I end up acting like a total jerk and/or gay, which interestingly enough comes quite naturally. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At places like Port 41, it’s best to utilize what I call Subway Vision.&nbsp; Subway Vision is when you are not strictly blind, but you are unable to see anything that isn’t totally pleasant. Weird shit happens on the New York City subway, and when it does, the consensus best response is to wholly ignore its existence when you might otherwise feel inclined to notice. An MTA train is just about the only place in the world where you can spot a homeless man peeing on a seeing-eye dog and have your only reaction be, <i>oh I see Harrison Ford has a new movie out, maybe I’ll check it out, look at the poster, look at the poster, look at the poster… </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Using Subway Vision is standard protocol at joints like Port 41 (or a beach, or a gym, or Hooters.)&nbsp; Just pretend like you don’t see the tampon string dangling precariously close to the tribal tattoos and order your beer. Problem solved. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Note: Subway Vision is virtually required if you are at one of these joints with a girlfriend. In that scenario, it’s best to pretend you haven’t even realized there is a bar. If free IPODs start falling out of the waitress’ ass, you are not allowed to notice.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I struggled to find ways to describe in detail Port 41, and thought it would be fun to post some reviews I found online. Alas, another blogger had beaten me to it. Here is a link to a blog post about Port 41, replete with photos and Yelp reviews, check it out: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://evgrieve.com/2008/11/giving-thanks-one-week-early-port-41.html">EV GRIEVE</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The comedy show and the Brooklyn Comedy Underground party seemed almost tangential. I was the first to arrive so I got first dibs on my spot on the lineup and went with lucky number four. &nbsp;The set went well. Dillon showed up unexpectedly and in a suit, which has to be something of a precedent at this venue. Dillon, Amy and I ditched the show early and walked around, soaking in the glitz and the squalor, the pomposity and the grandeur of Midtown, present time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m feeling good about the current lineup of jokes I now have in my possession. I think it may be my best. Not bad after one year. Yes, one year ago tomorrow I moved to New York. In many ways this was the hardest year of my life. But in so many more ways it was also the best. And maybe that’s the way life should be.&nbsp; </div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-85213010281480790452010-10-25T21:19:00.001-04:002010-10-25T21:20:56.578-04:00Excuses (And Hyperbole)Ok, I’m back. <br /><br />There have been rumblings recently that the 38th Governor of California will soon retire from politics to return to Hollywood. If these rumors prove true, it will mean that the 38th Governor of California will not follow in the footsteps of a previous movie star-turned-California Governor and ascend to the Presidency of the United States, ostensibly because the US Constitution won’t allow him, but in reality because God isn’t real. If there is a God, there is&nbsp;no way he wouldn’t see to it that Arnold Schwarzenneger became president. It’s just too good, too juicy to pass up. Now I can’t say I agree with Gov Schwarzenneger’s policies. I don’t actually know what they are – I don’t follow the “news.” But what I do know is that if God were real, he would want to see his children live in a world where they could realistically and appropriately see “The President of the United States” and “Total Recall” in the same sentence on Wikipedia. <br /><br />And if this is the week that Arnold returns to where he belongs, (protecting the future leaders of the resistance and dalliances with three-breasted Martian prostitutes) and away forever from where he has no right being, (conversations on immigration policy), then it will mark the second great comeback of fall 2010. I have decided to post again. <br /><br />The title of this blog post should be starting to make sense now.<br /><br />I’m not going to list the myriad of reasons why I haven’t posted in so long. For that, re-read any number of my whiny blog posts about how I am too busy or how I can’t organize my time or how I watch to much pornography and on an on. Those are all among the reasons. This post however is to reassure anybody who may care that I have not totally abandoned this site, and more importantly, I have not abandoned my purpose for moving to New York. Fast approaching the eve of my one-year New York anniversary, I realize that I must work harder, and I attend to. Excuses are over, I’m here. That was the hard part, if I recall.<br /><br />I’ve made a few promises to myself and there is one in particular that I would like to share: I will publish two posts to this website a week, every week, from now on, so help me Arnold. If I don’t, I will delete the site. If We Could Go On and On isn’t worth my token attention and effort every week, the it is not worth existing and not worth causing Harry serious anxiety problems. <br /><br />Today is Monday. The next blog post (and spoiler alert: it will be a good one) will arrive by the end of the week. This will stand as the only explanation for the apparent end of posting. We will all just pretend it never happened. <br /><br />Please stop by and check it out. I’ll be back.The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-63330832493994558262010-09-22T19:52:00.001-04:002010-09-22T19:57:37.359-04:00Instigatorzine: Issue 7<div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Monday’s blog took me five and a half hours. Seriously. It took me three-hundred and thirty minutes to determine my ten favorite funny films and then designate them a specific rank. My entire Monday afternoon/evening evaporated into a haze of cold cereal, cranberry juice and my venerable 2000-edition of Microsoft Word. &nbsp;It didn’t help that I wrote a mini-essay of adulation for each movie, (who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doesn’t</i> write for hours about Spaceballs?) and I felt a need to add pictures in case you didn’t remember what Bill Murray looked like. Whoever wrote that brevity is the soul of wit (I believe it was Eminem) would probably think I am a retard. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This blog however? 30 minutes, maybe.&nbsp; That’s because all the hard work was<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>done months ago. &nbsp;I wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Butterfly Net</i>, a short-story appearing in the current issue of the New Jersey-based literary magazine, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Instigatorzine</i>, in early July, as part of another several-hour long, cereal-fueled writing binge. The purpose of this blog post is simply to alert people to the magazine’s existence in the hopes that someone will be intrigued enough to buy it and of course, to massage my tender ego. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">(Note: The purpose of every blog post is to massage my tender ego.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">You can purchase the September issue, issue number seven, by clicking on the link below. It’s available for order as a hard copy via the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region> mail or download as a PDF. Now let’s all order the hard copy to show our respect for the dying printed word while at the same time giving a nice, resounding “Fuck You!” to trees everywhere. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p><a href="http://instigatorzine.com/merch.html">Purchase:&nbsp;Instigatorzine: Issue 7</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJqWRTyp0eI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/t7pkQ0iK8Yk/s1600/Instigatorzine,+Issue+7,+September+2010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJqWRTyp0eI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/t7pkQ0iK8Yk/s320/Instigatorzine,+Issue+7,+September+2010.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look...my name is down there. I swear!</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">A few notes about the story. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br /></div><ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">No, I can’t just print the story here for all of you to read, free of charge. First off, I signed a contract – which I did not read – but I’m pretty sure explicitly stated I cannot do that. And secondly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Instigatorzine</i> is an independent literary magazine. You’ll be supporting grass-root art and getting essential hipster subway gear at the same time. It’s a good thing, believe me. </li></ol><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ol start="2" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">In case there is someone out there who does purchase it, who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t </i>at one time happen to have me residing in their uterus or their testicles, I want to tell you: I am no longer particularly fond of this story. I can hardly read it truth be told. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Butterfly Net</i>. The day I found out it was going to be published was one of the proudest of my life. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Instigatorzine</i> is a tremendous publication.&nbsp; It’s just that re-reading the story now makes me grimace.&nbsp;&nbsp; I can’t stand the constant overuse of simile, I can’t stand the opening sentences, I can’t stand the melodrama.&nbsp; I feel like I can do a lot, which I guess is a good sign. I’m reminded of my friend Steve Macdonald, the musician. Every time I seen him perform he comes off the stage practically disgusted – irate - &nbsp;over some mic being too loud or too low, over some timing being off or whatever. And I always think he sounds great; I’ve literally never noticed any problem that Steve seems to think is monumental.&nbsp; But Steve notices them because he a legitimate artist; consummate. If he grew content, he would grow complacent and then he would fade away. So I guess I should be like Steve, obsessive. It’s the only way I’ll get better.&nbsp;&nbsp; And at any rate, only three people have read the story: the magazine, which accepted it, and Amy and Scoots, who both liked it. So maybe I’m just wrong.</li></ol><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;"><br /></div><ol start="3" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Before you even ask, because I know someone will, this is not a true story. I’d like to go into more detail and I will. Maybe tomorrow, if I’m good.&nbsp; </li></ol><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ol start="4" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Thank you. I like that there are imaginary people on their computers somewhere reading this and maybe even some that don’t think I’m a massive tool. For all those, thank you very much.&nbsp;</li></ol>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-17397379991249439472010-09-20T21:52:00.014-04:002010-09-21T18:36:23.786-04:00My Top Ten Comedies.<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here's a list for you. I think you will enjoy it, even though it has nothing to do with New York City or stand-up comedy. But at least I went with the top ten comedies, and not something totally unrelated, like top 10 moments in Jurassic Park or whatever. (Which will undoubtably come next time I am at a loss for blog ideas.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Enjoy!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And please note: these are my<i> personal</i> favorite. I have not seen every comedy ever made and I do not consider myself in any way a movie expert. So don't be offended at a particular&nbsp;omission&nbsp;(note to the GF: I haven't seen all of<i> Caddyshack,</i> big fight coming) or at my lack of taste. These are just ten comedies I happen to enjoy very much.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">10. The Naked Gun Trilogy.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ok, I realize this might be cheating, since these are technically three different movies. But just about every publication listed the <i>Lord of the Rings</i> trilogy as one singular movie when they bestowed upon it best-movie-of-the-decade status. And since LOTR is cinematic gruel when compared to Leslie Nielson’s magnum opus, I feel warranted grouping <i>The Naked Gun</i> movies together. <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgKX3oFbkI/AAAAAAAAADI/OTjFIXMVsH8/s1600/nakedgun.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgKX3oFbkI/AAAAAAAAADI/OTjFIXMVsH8/s320/nakedgun.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">How to even pick a best of the three anyway?&nbsp; All three of them feature many instances of slapstick, saturation humor at its zenith. Do you fancy Leslie Nielson’s Lt. Frank Drebin impersonating a famed opera singer at a Dodger’s game and butchering an impromptu Star Spangled Banner: “and the ramparts we watched uh…dada da da daaaa, and the rockets red glare... buncha bombs in the air.”?&nbsp;&nbsp; Or do you prefer a just-about-to-murder-his-wife OJ Simpson trying to spike a baby in a madcap parody of <i>The Untouchables (</i>while Lt. Drebin reads a newspaper that proclaims: <i>Dyslexia for Cure Found</i>?) Or maybe you’re like me and you love an exchange like this one from <i>The Naked Gun 2 1/2</i>, which is quintessential Leslie Nielson:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Drebin:</b> Well, What did he look like?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Jane:</b> He was Caucasian, mustache, about 6 foot 3. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Drebin</b>: That’s an awfully big mustache. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">9. Team </span><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">America</span></st1:place></st1:country-region><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">: World Police.</span><o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I wanted to seem cool and not include this movie, which really did not age well, but every time I see that one puppet poop on the other puppet in the greatest puppet-sex scene ever, or hear the lyrics to the wonderfully irreverent and factual <i>Pearl Harbor Sucked and I Miss You</i>, I realize that I would be lying to not include Team America. Mookish though it may be, it’s still hilarious. <br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">8. Kingpin.</span></b> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I love this movie. I can’t help it. Of the Farrelly Brothers’ first three (and by far, best) movies, <i>Dumb and Dumber</i>, <i>Kingpin</i>, and <i>There’s Something About Mary</i>, <i>Kingpin</i> is the one that remains the funniest in repeat viewing.&nbsp; Like <i>Dumb and Dumber</i> and <i>There's Something About Mary,&nbsp;</i>&nbsp;<i>Kingpin</i> featured the Farrely’ Brother’s typical gross-out humor while it was still original; unlike <i>Dumb and Dumber</i> and <i>There's Something About Mary,</i>&nbsp;&nbsp;<i>Kingpin</i> featured Bill Murray improvising virtually every line of his dialog. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgOFbV8-zI/AAAAAAAAAEA/Bpsicqj9J1U/s1600/bad-hair-kingpin-movie-bill-murray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgOFbV8-zI/AAAAAAAAAEA/Bpsicqj9J1U/s320/bad-hair-kingpin-movie-bill-murray.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Woody Harrelson plays beyond washed-up bowler Roy Munson to hilarious extreme, (I love the opening scene of Munson 17-years later, when he beats the morning alarm clock senseless with his hook-hand, then immediately chugs a bottle of Jack Daniels) and Randy Quaid doesn’t ruin the movie.&nbsp; But it’s Bill Murray as Harrelson’s rival bowler, Ernie McCracken, who predictably steals the movie.&nbsp; Every scene is ass-hole <st1:city w:st="on">Murray</st1:city> at his best, whether he's turning <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Roy</st1:place></st1:city>’s surname into cliché for failure (“These kids…they nearly got Munsoned.”) or refuting reporters’ inquiry into his pending paternity suit (“Please… I pulled outta her way early.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">7. Spaceballs. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgK6tzqErI/AAAAAAAAADQ/pImkry8GDsc/s1600/spaceballs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgK6tzqErI/AAAAAAAAADQ/pImkry8GDsc/s320/spaceballs.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I see your Schwartz is as big as mine.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><o:p><br /></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here’s the thing: I knew I would seem much more academic and serious and somehow cool if I selected one of Mel Brooks’s more famous and celebrated films like <i>Young Frankenstein</i> or <i>Blazing Saddles</i>, but I couldn’t lie to you dear blog readers. Brooks’ spirited <i>Star Wars</i> parody, <i>Spaceballs</i> is still my favorite. Why?&nbsp; I dunno.&nbsp; Probably the fact that Rick Moranis plays a Dearth Vader wannabe named Pith Helmet. Maybe it was Brooks getting beamed to the room next door only to find his head is on backwards. (“How come no one told me my ass was so big?”) &nbsp;Maybe it was the room full of Mr. Ass Holes, or the Schwartz battle (“I see your Schwartz is as big as mine. Now let’s see how well you handle it.” ) Or maybe it was Pith Helmet playing with his dolls again. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I dunno.&nbsp;&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I just love it the most. OK? Back the fuck up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Video:</b> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NjSYfwZpj3U">Your Helmet is so big...</a><br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">6. Groundhog Day.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Groundhog Day</i> comes dangerously close to being one of those movies that may not actually be a comedy, &nbsp;a dreaded <i>dramedy</i> that may rely too heavily on drama to still classify it as a comedy. But the first half of this movie is so funny it makes up for the second half, which is mostly sweet, light drama. &nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I almost never watch <i>Groundhog Day</i> without feeling intense pangs of jealousy. Jealous of Harold Ramis, because I know I will never write anything so effortlessly clever and virile for comedy, and jealous of Bill Murray, because I will never be that good.&nbsp; I like that the plot is absurd and contrived, and the script mines that for comedic inspiration. My favorite sequences are towards the beginning, when <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Murray</st1:place></st1:city>’s weatherman is learning how to use his “curse” to his advantage to seduce a random woman at a diner, and then his boss. Watching these scenes for the first time, and slowly realizing what Murray is up to, is watching the perfect union between script and performer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">5 Airplane. </span><o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This and the next movie make up what I call the “Classics” portion of my list. You can’t have a best movies list without <i>The Godfather</i> and you can’t have a best comedies list without <i>Airplane.</i>&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Offended that I just compared <i>Airplane</i> to <i>The Godfather</i>? Consider this:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A. The movie all-but-invented two types of movie comedy: dead pan comedy and saturation humor. Dead pan is the pretense of seriousness, in comedy it means basically acting straight while saying ludicrous things. Peter Graves, Leslie Nielson, and Robert Graves put on an absolute clinic in dead pan humor in Airplane. How do they say it these days...? They totally <i>pwned</i> that shit. And saturation humor is basically stuffing so many jokes into a movie, in the foreground and background, that it doesn’t matter if only 30% of jokes work, because that equals roughly 1200 funny jokes. &nbsp;Remember when the passengers panicked as the situation became dire and a topless woman walked in the aisle and jiggled her breasts for no reason? &nbsp;That’s saturation-humor at its best, folks. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">B. <b>Video: </b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ymMBEwtRZOg">I Speak Jive.&nbsp;</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgRQwxWp5I/AAAAAAAAAEI/AZeIv0cZkpI/s1600/airplane.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgRQwxWp5I/AAAAAAAAAEI/AZeIv0cZkpI/s320/airplane.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Automatic co-pilot and stewardess, post-coital.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">4. </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Animal House.</span></b> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgMQnZhiLI/AAAAAAAAADg/YMtFHIgrfig/s1600/animalhouse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgMQnZhiLI/AAAAAAAAADg/YMtFHIgrfig/s320/animalhouse.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The movie that would have been number one if 14-year old Gregory made this list, <i>Animal House</i> has nonetheless endured long enough to remain among my favorite funny films.&nbsp;&nbsp; It’s no surprise that I connected to it more as a 14 year old then I do now because A. I had not yet been to college and fully expected it to be exactly like the Delta House and B. I always felt like I was breaking the rules watching Animal House, and that made it cooler. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My father loved <i>Animal House</i> and used to sneak my brother and I downstairs to watch, and my mother never approved. (Something about that scene where a Freshmen consults with the devil on whether or not to continue having sex with a passed-out 13 year-old girl with one breast.) &nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The film is justifiably considered a classic. There are a myriad of reasons why it has been so loved for so long. For me, I love the combination of gross/out humor and underdog ramshackle ambivalence.&nbsp; I love how the preppy fraternity is the bad guys, and all their leaders limp. I love how John Belushi chugs whisky and throws the bottle against the wall and then becomes senator. I could go on and on really. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgLiPtL7XI/AAAAAAAAADY/Jin5t2wJKOQ/s1600/Kevin-Bacon-Animal-House.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgLiPtL7XI/AAAAAAAAADY/Jin5t2wJKOQ/s320/Kevin-Bacon-Animal-House.gif" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's a mathematic&nbsp;certainty&nbsp;that Kevin Bacon will end up in every movie.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">3. </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.</span><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Planes, Trains, and Automobiles</i> is essentially <i>The Odd Couple Hits the Road</i>, but the film rises above its familiar plot contrivances because of the talent of its leads, Steve Martin and John Candy. Steve Martin, playing against type (if you assume that his type by the mid-eighties was the bumbling buffoon of <i>The Jerk</i> or SNL’s “King Tut”) as a conservative, uptight business square, is pitch-perfect high-strung. Martin’s Neal Page is pure 80’s quiet desperation until John Candy’s exhaustingly affable (and annoying) Del Griffith sends him on a number of hilarious and poetically profane outbursts, the highlight of them being this:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>Video: </b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S5o8DFfYHS4">You're fucked.</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But the real treat of <i>Planes, Trains, and Automobiles</i> is the unexpected dramatic talent of John Candy.&nbsp; There were always sad undertones to the lovable-oaf character John Candy played to almost iconic status during his career. (I think it was by virtue of his weight. We tend to equate obesity to sadness, to our assumption that an overweight man is burdened to a life alone because no girl ever loves the fat guy. Candy’s standard good-natured performances underscored this, since they always seemed to be masking a deep loneliness.)&nbsp;&nbsp; This subtext was hinted at in films like <i>Uncle Buck</i> or <i>Only the Lonely</i>, but <i>in Planes, Trains and Automobiles</i>, Candy brings his loneliness to the forefront. It’s so effective that it reveals an entirely different level to a movie that features Steve Martin being lifted from the curb by his genitals.&nbsp;&nbsp; In one scene in a <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Wichita</st1:place></st1:city> motel, Martin finally lashes out and berates Candy. As the camera hangs on Candy’s face, such a legitimate pathos is generated that it pervades the entirety of the movie. This would make<i> Planes, Trains and Automobiles </i>seem gloomy, but it really just makes everything funnier because you unwittingly become so invested in the characters. A wonderful movie. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgMtjCnJsI/AAAAAAAAADo/MPh7jQ75SC4/s1600/Kevin-Bacon-Planes-Trains-and-Automobiles.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgMtjCnJsI/AAAAAAAAADo/MPh7jQ75SC4/s320/Kevin-Bacon-Planes-Trains-and-Automobiles.17.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><b>See what I mean?! Every movie!</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">2. &nbsp;Hot Fuzz.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal">The follow-up to Simon Pegg and Nick Frost’s hilarious and surprisingly violent <i>Shaun of the Dead</i>, <i>Hot Fuzz</i> cemented the duo as the preeminent purveyors of parody. If <st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region>’s idea of parody is <i>Shaun of the Dead</i> and <i>Hot Fuzz</i> and <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region>’s idea is <i>Scary Movie, Disaster Movie, Epic Movie </i>and the rest of that putrid shit, then perhaps <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Britain</st1:country-region></st1:place> should reclaim rule over its former subordinate. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgNIG8BI9I/AAAAAAAAADw/7dVXYJ5aoxk/s1600/HotFuzz-320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgNIG8BI9I/AAAAAAAAADw/7dVXYJ5aoxk/s320/HotFuzz-320.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I prefer <i>Hot Fuzz </i>out of the two, and if I were making my top ten favorite movies in any genre, it’s quite likely <i>Hot Fuzz</i> would make that list as well. I love how Pegg and Frost lampoon: with reverence. &nbsp;They clearly love the material they are parodying, and it is evident in <i>Hot Fuzz</i>. The film’s setup is genius. The protagonist, played - as in <i>Shaun of the Dead </i>-by Simon Pegg, spends the first half of the movie deriding and discrediting any number of action-movie clichés, then realizes that employing those clichés is the only way to achieve justice in his cozy little English-hamlet, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Sanford</st1:city></st1:place>. The catalyst for this – when Pegg is about to flee town before seeing Point Break and Bad Boys 2 at a gas station – is parody genius. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">1. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.</span></b><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I think this is the number one. There wasn’t going to be a resounding winner here; this wasn’t an easy list like say… a list of my top ten pizza toppings or my top two parents – this one took thought.&nbsp; The difference in the amount of “funny” between number 10 and number 1 is indistinguishable, and if I were to tally the number of laughs each of the previous films elicited, there’s a good chance they would rank ahead of <i>Dirty Rotten Scoundrels</i>. But DRS has hands-down the funniest sequence of any movie on the list, and therefore probably the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. If you’ve seen the movie, you know which scene I’m talking about, and if you haven’t seen it, you’ll know as soon as you do.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In <i>Dirty Rotten Scoundrels</i>, Michael Caine plays the debonair British con-artist to Steve Martin’s foul-mouthed, sleazy American counterpart in a hilarious game of one-upmanship. The pairing is genius, the script is excessively clever and the plots twists are genuinely surprising. The movie is proof that a comedy is best served with an intelligent script. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But it is Steve Martin’s six minutes as the imbecile, man-child Rupricht that represent the film’s <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">high point</st1:place></st1:city>. &nbsp;Hyperbole be damned, this is probably the funniest six minutes I’ve ever seen in a movie. I can’t watch it with out tear-streaming laughter.&nbsp; What makes this sequence so great is that while it is laden with sight gags and toilet humor, it really only works in the context of the movie – it’s infinitely funnier in the framework of the plot then if I just showed you the clip on Youtube.&nbsp;&nbsp; And please don’t get the impression that Michael Caine has no hand in this comedy paradise, to the contrary. It’s the way Caine plays off Martin’s Rupricht that elevates it to the sublime. Witness the way Caine scolds Rupricht, they way he eggs Rupricht along in order to scare away his wealthy marks. In a testament to the cleverness of the script, it’s the reason <i>why</i> Michael Caine is employing Steve Martin in this role that makes it funnier.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The rest of the movie is no slouch. &nbsp;The sparring between the two leads is a constant delight.&nbsp; It may not be the <i>funniest</i> funny movie I have ever seen. But every time I watch <i>Dirty Rotten Scoundrels</i>, I get the distinct impression it’s the best.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgNplVoXCI/AAAAAAAAAD4/DA9hJCV1-vY/s1600/stevemartin.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TJgNplVoXCI/AAAAAAAAAD4/DA9hJCV1-vY/s320/stevemartin.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><b>Comedy Genius.&nbsp;</b></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-76376003401928333392010-09-11T15:49:00.006-04:002010-09-11T19:19:37.358-04:00The Sucked Orange<div class="MsoNormal">Legendary Anti-Semite and part-time auto-worker Henry Ford once had this to say about my transplanted home, <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“There’s just too many Jews – I mean they already control our newspapers and now I can’t even get a decent bagel –“</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">… I’m sorry that’s the wrong quote. Ahh, here it is: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“<st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> is a different country. Maybe it ought to have a separate government. Everybody thinks differently, acts differently. They just don’t know what the hell the rest of the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">United States</st1:place></st1:country-region> is.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Kinda makes you think: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gee, if what the “ rest of the United States is” is people like Henry Ford, then good-fucking-riddance</i> but still - the demagogue had a point. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">like </i>the idea of <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> being its own country. <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>’s metropolitan area, which includes the city itself plus neighboring cities like <st1:city w:st="on">Newark</st1:city> and <st1:city w:st="on">Stamford</st1:city> – <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>’s JV Squad if you will – is home to over 22 million people, which as its own independent nation would make <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> the 54<sup>th</sup> most populated country on Earth, beating out about 175 other, sovereign nations. <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>’s gross metropolitan product is 1.13 trillion dollars, 1.02 trillion of that covering the Yankees’ infield. In regards to being its own country, <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> could totally pull it off, and maybe it just should. &nbsp;Hell, why stop there? <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> is so diverse, home to so many large and prosperous ethnic subgroups representing scores of nations; it really could be its own planet.&nbsp; It would certainly give a new meaning to the phrase “illegal aliens.”&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TIvcW-CJKnI/AAAAAAAAADA/GSCtBLoKrvc/s1600/henry-ford.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TIvcW-CJKnI/AAAAAAAAADA/GSCtBLoKrvc/s320/henry-ford.gif" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><b>In <u>Brave New World</u>, Aldous Huxley envisions a future dystopia where Henry Ford is our Deity. Aldous Huxley did massive&nbsp;amounts&nbsp;of LSD.</b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve discovered that a vast majority of quotes on the internet regarding <st1:city w:st="on">New York City</st1:city> are negative. It appears there is nothing easier then getting someone famous to say something shitty about <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York:</st1:place></st1:state></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><div class="MsoNormal">“<st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>, like <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">London</st1:place></st1:city>, seems to be a cloacina [toilet] of all the depravities of human nature.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;- Thomas Jefferson</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">“<st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> is a sucked orange.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span">&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;- Ralph Waldo Emerson</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><br /></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><i>This could be good or bad. Who knows?</i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">“[<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city>] sucks… It just fucking sucks.”<o:p></o:p></div><div style="line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><b>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; -</b>Woody Allen (As quoted in <i>The Onion</i>.) <o:p></o:p></div><div style="line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><i>Read <a href="http://www.theonion.com/articles/84-million-new-yorkers-suddenly-realize-new-york-c,18003/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">this </span></a>now. Actually, strike that. Read it after you finish my blog.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div style="line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span style="color: black;">That’s just a sampling of what awaits you if you Google <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Quotes</i>.&nbsp;&nbsp;It’s interesting (if not a little bit unsurprising) the level of vitriol that <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> can inspire in people. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div style="line-height: 13.5pt; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">Anyone watching Saturday Night Live in the late&nbsp;nineties&nbsp;remembers the name of disgraced big-league pitcher John Rocker.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal;">He took the time-tested route toward immortality that a surprising amount of perpetually mediocre athletes traverse: he made a legendary ass of himself. When asked by Sports Illustrated about the prospect of playing for the Yankees or Mets, the affable and cuddly Rocker infamously responded:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">"I would retire first. It's the most hectic, nerve-racking city. Imagine having to take the [Number] 7 train to the ballpark, looking like you're [riding through] Beirut next to some kid with purple hair next to some queer with AIDS right next to some dude who just got out of jail for the fourth time right next to some 20-year-old mom with four kids. It's depressing."</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 10px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 10px; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Ok, here’s the thing: Until the last two words, John Rocker was spot on. (And this is really just a modern, albeit far less eloquent, update on <st1:place w:st="on">Jefferson</st1:place>’s quote.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">Let me explain before you go accuse me of being a sexist, racist, paranoid son-of-a-bitch. There’s an adage in the marketing world I learned in college, and it’s appropriate here: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s the medium not the message.</i> Or something like that; I was not frequently sober. But anyway that’s the gist of it and the point is that the person or device that’s disseminating the information is more important the information itself. &nbsp;What John Rocker is saying is true, but more important is what’s also true, that John Rocker <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a sexist, racist, paranoid son-of-a-bitch. (Read his Wikipedia entry. The rest of his life proves this.) &nbsp;So when says it, being an ass hole, it becomes an ass hole thing to say. It's the medium.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">My initial reaction to re-reading Rocker’s quote was &nbsp;- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve been on that train before, why didn’t he mention the guy with no legs?!</i> – and I’m sure I’m not the only one to think like that. But the difference between all of us and John Rocker is that these are things we love about <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city>, indeed these are things that some of us are ourselves. We’re dudes with purple hair, we’re queers with AIDS, we’re ex-cons, we’re teenage moms.&nbsp;&nbsp;And we all ride the train.&nbsp;<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place> just happens to have the biggest concentration of these people probably in the world, and for most people (most people I hang around with anyway) that’s pretty cool. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">I wish I wasn’t 11 years late writing about John Rocker.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><br /></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-11603399907512322652010-08-30T21:41:00.003-04:002010-08-31T12:44:55.364-04:00In Hell, it’s all Bringers.<div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I forget why I don’t do bringers. Because I have a soul.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">One day that soul may face Judgement, and I bear not the strength to face it with nothing to show for my soul but a history of bloodsucking bringers.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here is how my last bringer show ended: five good people, whose opinions of me I actually care about, paid about $35 each to watch me do the same material and tolerate being the butt of every comic’s intolerable crowd-work because they happened to be – with the exception of one obviously confused, middle-aged Asian man – the only people in the entire club. In other words, the club made $175 off me and me alone, and I got to watch people I like be ridiculed and forced to buy $10 beers.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My Soul. My Soul needs cleansing. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/THxaVyYGEmI/AAAAAAAAACg/tL-bvc8bPpg/s1600/gotham1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/THxaVyYGEmI/AAAAAAAAACg/tL-bvc8bPpg/s320/gotham1).jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><b>These pictures are great because it's impossible to tell that there are less people in the audience than a</b>&nbsp;<b>Mel Gibson Fan Club.</b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><b><br /></b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">(Note: I know this show was weeks ago: I don’t churn these things out at a rate that pleases me. I would love to find a system that works, like posting a new blog every Tuesday – Thursday, or every day divisible by four, but any such method eludes me. The best I can hope for is Harry Q. yelling at me on my Facebook wall, and then subsequently liking his yelling at me to remind myself that I should get off Lobstertube and dust off the ole We Could Go On and On.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The show was at Gotham Comedy Club on a Friday Night. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wow, a Friday-night spot at <st1:place w:st="on">Gotham</st1:place>, not bad, sport-o. </i>&nbsp;Don’t get too excited; the show was a bringer that started at 6:30, which is the comedy equivalent of me telling you I fulfilled my dream of playing at Gillette Stadium and you later discovering all I did was run around the field with the other blind kids at 11am with the Patriots’ PR team and the backup place-kicker.&nbsp; So let’s all keep this in perspective. &nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I got to the show early and the place was desolate. It was my first time in the <st1:place w:st="on">Gotham</st1:place>, and I must say, it was gorgeous. It was all sleek and silver and black. Everything was a smooth and becoming plastic, like the back side of smart-phone. If BrookStone made comedy clubs instead of just alarm clocks that play ocean sounds, it would look like the Gotham Comedy Club.&nbsp; When I first got there I was giddy; there was definitely an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve-finally-made-it</i> vibe in the room as realized I would soon be performing on this stage.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Any feelings of comedic actualization were fleeting as the show started and it became evident that the people I brought to the show to be able to perform were the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only people in the audience</i>.&nbsp; (I’m choosing to ignore the aforementioned bewildered Asian man, because let’s face it: if I don’t at least get some empathy for this show then it will have been an abject failure.) &nbsp;&nbsp;There were at least 10 other comics, none of whom brought anyone because apparently they didn’t have to. This probably gives them the impression that they are “above” me as comedians. Maybe so. But they weren’t better comedians. Not by a long shot. Still, I was the only one &nbsp;who had to ask his friends to blow almost forty dollars and a Friday afternoon to have the privilege to perform.&nbsp; Makes you feel like a schmuck, you know? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/THxboO6wHKI/AAAAAAAAACo/0nFp6i5dKkQ/s1600/gotham2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/THxboO6wHKI/AAAAAAAAACo/0nFp6i5dKkQ/s320/gotham2.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p>&nbsp;<b>These pictures make it seem like the post is bigger!&nbsp;</b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p><b><br /></b></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">Since it was just my friends and they were seated smack-dab in the front row, they were all treated to some of the worst, hackiest crowd work forty dollars can buy! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Who’s single here? Are you guys a couple? Are you freaky in the sack? Who’s smoking weed tonight? Name your top five Wrestlemanias – quick! <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">(What I wouldn’t have done for that last one to be true?) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">A coworker of mine, Alex, who is just about the nicest person you could ever meet (she has a WALL-E bookbag for goddsakes) got the worst of the reverse heckling. I won’t even write some of the things that were said to her because I fear for my job if I printed them on the internet.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/THxcYKJKCyI/AAAAAAAAACw/5uY-JFvTFm4/s1600/gotham3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/THxcYKJKCyI/AAAAAAAAACw/5uY-JFvTFm4/s320/gotham3.jpg" /></a><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>The joy on my face is not a joke.&nbsp;</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Photos courtesy of Amy H.)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I went on seventh. It’s hard to perform for a paying audience that consists of people you could have just invited over to your apartment and told jokes to for free. They were all such good sports, though. They laughed and smiled and were supportive and told me I needn’t feel apologetic or embarrassed when, of course, I felt both.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Afterwards, the booker/headliner of the show, who was a genuinely nice guy and a talented comedian, offered me a bringer-free guest-spot on a future show.&nbsp; I accepted and then came to the sudden realization that perhaps that was how all the other comics on the bill got to perform sans duped guests; they had already brought people to their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">own</i> embarrassing failure and were compensated with a spot on my sinking-ship nightmare of a show. Makes sense.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Just to make myself feel a little better, I’ll use this time to thank the people who went to the show by name, didn’t complain one bit, took every thing good-naturedly, and decided to still talk to me afterwards. Amy, Aimee, Alex, Sarah and Dillon. Thank you. You are all going to Heaven, where they don’t have drink minimums and comedians who make inferences on your sexual habits based on your earrings. (Hell is loaded with both.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-23743246895405457202010-08-16T20:11:00.004-04:002010-08-16T20:12:30.010-04:00one outta two.<div class="MsoNormal">One outta two ain’t bad. In fact, there are a myriad of pursuits in which one outta two would be positively splendid. If a first baseman, for example, keeps a one outta two pace at the plate for an entire season, he would almost certainly have registered the greatest season in the history of hitting first basemen. Just about the only blemish on my one outta two is that it is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only</i> outta two; it’s too soon to determine if this is an indication of success or merely happenstance. But for now I stay positive and simply maintain: one outta two <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ain’t</i> bad.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Question</b>: What the hell am I talking about?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Sorry. I’ll explain. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I spent a good deal of time over July writing short stories, most of which I don’t mind saying were god-awful garbage.&nbsp; But I persevered, because I like writing short stories. Any creative pursuit that can be pursued sitting on a couch in one’s underwear while blasting Eminem is how shall I say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my cup of tea.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">By the end of the month, submission deadlines for a few literary magazines were approaching, and I worked up the nerve to submit two different stories to two different magazines. One story was accepted and one was rejected, and what follows this (typically) elongated introduction is the rejected story.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Some sour grapes: </b>&nbsp;The magazine that rejected me sucks anyway! It’s so lame, and the magazine that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> publish me is waaaaay better. Like 1000 times better. And sexier.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">ANYWAY, The story below is entitled <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">In Left Field</b>, and like all fiction, is based and born in truth. &nbsp;It’s not god-awful garbage, but I think it’s vastly inferior to the story that was accepted, so I’m actually quite content with how it all worked out.&nbsp; The literary magazine that rejected it stressed a brevity theme, and all submissions had to adhere to a 500-word limit. Part of (most of) the reason I chose to submit In Left Field was that with it’s original length of 1200 words, it was by far the shortest story I wrote. It was not easy eliminating 60% of a story that was only a couple pages long anyway, and indeed what remained of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">In Left Field</b> was skeletal. In bore only a slight resemblance. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So, the magazine’s loss is We Could Go On and On’s gain (or loss, if you are understandably sick of these stories).&nbsp; Here is my first rejection. May it be the first of many, as long as I never stop writing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">In Left Field.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">By Gregory Quinn</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Mr. Anderson sat on his back porch, our default left-field foul pole.&nbsp; He loved watching me strike the old man out. He laughed and hollered and told my father he couldn’t hit the pool from the diving board. He called me the next Rocket.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">My father pretended to be upset, promising to bring the heater when he took the rubber. But he’d toss me a gopher and I’d crank it to the trees while Mr. Anderson cheered. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Our field was a miniature diamond of raked-aside pine needles and bags of sand we bought at the hardware store. &nbsp;Mr. Anderson helped us build the field. He paced off the distance from the batter’s box to the pitcher’s mound, walking one foot after the other in dogged precision. He maintained the field throughout the summer, raked the sand and painted the foul poles yellow.&nbsp; He never played, always retreating to the porch of his brown ranch and always looking after his wife, whom I never met.&nbsp;&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Mr. Anderson’s wife stayed inside, sheltered. During our games, Mr. Anderson checked on his wife often, bringing himself and my father another drink as he returned. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She’s been feeling a little ill lately</i>, he explained, pointing to the sky, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this damn weather</i>.&nbsp; At night, my father walked through the never-mended fence and sat with him on the back porch, smoking and drinking and trying to ignore. &nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Late in July, Mr. Anderson’s wife was seen wandering around the neighborhood naked, muttering to herself and watering the gardens. Mr. Anderson found her and silently wrapped her in a blanket, walking her to his truck. My parents sat at the dinner table and remarked <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how sad</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what a shame</i>, never expressing the relief that their own breakdowns took place in the anonymity of their own home, fully clothed.&nbsp;&nbsp; After dinner Mr. Anderson was back on his porch, warning me to watch out for the heater.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">On the nights we didn’t play Mr. Anderson stayed outside, sipping from silver cans of beer and throwing rocks at the sticks in front of him. His wife called from inside and he’d go to her, emerging with a fresh drink but no one for which to explain. He’d shake his head and sit back down, barely moving.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It wasn’t long and then Mr. Anderson’s seat in left field was always empty. The trips inside for his wife were longer and longer and when he came back out he said nothing. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My father went over there often then. He went inside and stayed for hours. He and Mr. Anderson came back out to the porch and from my bedroom window I watched them sit and smoke in silence.&nbsp; My father came in so late those nights I never heard him come home.&nbsp; &nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Mr. Anderson’s wife died the weekend I went back to school. I’m not sure I even noticed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>The End. </b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p>&nbsp;~~~~</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">See. It’s not that great. I mean, I don’t hate it. I like the image of Mr. Anderson’s crazed wife watering the neighbors’ gardens naked. But I know I can do better. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Amy suggested that one day I should publish an anthology of all my rejected stories (she assumes, like I, there will be a lot of them) and entitle it: <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Suck It: The Rejected Stories of Gregory Quinn. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /> </b></div><div class="MsoNormal">My girlfriend is a genius.&nbsp;</div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-48211728899608910532010-08-09T21:32:00.003-04:002010-08-09T21:37:50.159-04:00Advice is like Ass Holes.<div class="MsoNormal">I was goofing around on the internet the other night, hours after I really should have been asleep, when I stumbled upon an interesting site. The site- <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Write Like</i> – is a “statistical analysis tool” that allows you to input into its generator a personal writing sample, which is then “analyzed” and compared to a famous author.&nbsp; No wonder they haven’t cured cancer - this has clearly taken precedence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After a few minutes messing around, it was clear this was all a marketing scheme for some writing workshop, but initially I was very intrigued. The link to the website was under “Do you write like Kurt Vonnegut or Stephen King?” and it was impossible to resist such a query. (Never mind what I Google-searched to yield such a link.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Obviously I was curious to find out which famous authors my writing style resembles, so I entered the first few paragraphs of my short story, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">On Interstate 35, Stuck</b>, (available for your reading pleasure in the archives section) hit the analyze button and immediately, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Write Like</i> informed me I write like Stephen King.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Ok. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">In the interest of consistency, I insert the last few paragraphs of &nbsp;<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Interstate 35 </b>and find that in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> part of the 800-word story, I write like Dan Brown, author of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The DaVinci Code,</b> a book which Stephen King famously hated. Oh, irony. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">After a few more samples, I enter full messing-around mode. I write simply “suck it” into the analyzation-chamber, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Write Like</i> tells me that “suck it” is not a sufficient sample. So I elaborate and enter “Suck it, Mr. Magoo. You are not welcome here” and wallah! I write like Ray Bradbury. Don’t remember that line in <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Fahrenheit 451</b>, but no matter. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The legitimacy of this whole operation now in question, I create a little test for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Write Like.&nbsp; </i>I input the first line of Stephen King’s story <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1408</b>: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mike Enslin was still in the revolving door when he saw Olin , the manager of the Hotel Dolphin, sitting in one of the overstuffed lobby chairs.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">What I found was that for all the years Stephen King was under the impression he wrote like Stephen King, he was mistaken. He wrote like Vladimir Nabokov.&nbsp; Perhaps it was the hotel setting which made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Write Like </i>think of illicit, nubile love. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The site also features a “Prove-It” tab which enables you to link your results to your Facebook page and demonstrate that irrefutable technology has proven you do indeed write like JD Salinger.&nbsp; I spent the rest of the night trying hopelessly to get I Write Like to tell me I write like Kurt Vonnegut, even blatantly plagiarizing <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Cat’s Cradle, </b>but was unsuccessful.&nbsp; Then, inspiration struck me, and I input:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Suck it, Mr. Magoo. You are not welcome here. So it Goes.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I Write Like</i> analyzed this and told me I write like Ernest Hemingway. My name is Yon Yonson. I come from <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Wisconsin</st1:place></st1:state></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">All of this got me thinking about the craft of writing in general, and how - while this website is flawed – we all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> write like somebody. And this brings me to the main point of this blog (Ha! Those 500 words you just read were merely the introduction! Suck it.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I think the best way to become a better writer is to become a better reader. Constant, obsessive reading is just about the best writing class you could ever hope to take. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Here’s what I’m thinking. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">We unconsciously emulate everything we are receiving. Spend enough time with anything: a person, a book, a musician, a movie, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fast-food</i> restaurant (anything!) and it’s practically inevitable that you’ll start to copy certain things about their personality -their habits and quirks and humor and style - without even thinking about it.&nbsp; I had a teammate back in my NCCC days, Dylan, whose quirky style of humor I found infectious, and after only a few weeks living with him, I found myself constantly employing his brand of confused-faces and wise-ass-bewilderment humor without even trying, it just happened, and it felt totally natural. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The same thing happens with writing. The writer’s style is going to mirror whoever they’ve been reading lately or whoever they read the most. If a dude has read nothing but Stephen King and then one day sits down to write a short story, it would almost assuredly resemble, if not outright replicate, the prose of King. There’s a good chance the dude’s story would be a moody, folksy character ensemble about a nefarious store, politician, car, or graveyard in rural <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Maine</st1:place></st1:state>. It would just happen. But if this dude, let’s call him Fisher; if Fisher becomes a better reader and adds more authors to his daily reading regimen, when he sits down to write his next story it’s going to have the influences of the new authors, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">plus</i> the still-strong influence of King, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">plus</i> the singular perspective of Fisher himself (which is exclusively Fisher’s, unique to him in the world, which is what makes writing great) and what will emerge will be the amalgam, and now Fisher is a much better writer. It’s like magic. Fisher has added Kurt Vonnegut, Phillip Roth and David Foster Wallace to his reading list, and his new story is about a time-shifting alien growing up in post-war Jewish Newark and battling a prescription drug addiction. And his car is haunted. And that story could potentially be awesome. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The more you read, the more unique your reading list will be, thus the more interesting the mixture of influences in your writing style becomes. I really think it’s as simple as that. I could be wrong (I probably <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am </i>wrong) but I know for sure that the more I read, the better these posts become, and no way that’s a coincidence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Walk around <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state></st1:place> and you’ll see those ubiquitous yellow newspaper stands with catalogs for writing classes, the front of the stand proclaiming: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Learn How to Write!</i> Inside you’ll find a few dozen suggestions on what to do with a few hundred dollars and 6 hours a week. They obviously don’t want you to know that a library card is free.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">PS.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal">I input this entire post into <i>I Write Like.&nbsp;</i> I found like I write like Cory Doctorow, a Canadian Blogger and Science Fiction writer. Creepy.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;</div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-13690478387356772792010-08-05T19:50:00.000-04:002010-08-05T19:50:16.627-04:00Deal With It.<div class="MsoNormal">When I was 14, I saw a billboard for Hooters Air. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">For the unfortunate few not in the know, Hooters Air was the official airline of Hooters Restaurant, the only “family restaurant” that makes a <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Montreal</st1:place></st1:city> strip joint seem tasteful. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Before you ask, please believe me. I am not making this up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was a hideous idea. Most people realize that flying is serious business and wouldn’t trust their lives to a company that somehow screwed up the combination of bar food and big breats. When I’m 35,000 feet in the air, I’m usually in a far too serious mood to participate in the type of decorum the Hooters’ atmosphere perpetuates. People agreed with me, and not long after I saw the billboard, Hooters Air folded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This would have been around the year 2000</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was 15 years old and on Interstate 95, somewhere in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">North Carolina</st1:place></st1:state>. Above me, the endless string of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">South of the Border</i> billboards relented for just a moment, and in their wake was a preposterously garish orange sign, with an illustration of a 747 and that semi-iconic Hooters owl, himself proclaiming: “Hooters Air, Where getting there is <s>half </s><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span><i>all </i>the fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My 15-year-old self thought it was absolute genius. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a play on that old cliché and it was marketing wizardry. If anyone you know ever flew on Hooters Air, <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">that</span> was the reason. I’m not saying they saw the Billboard and then dialed their travel agents, but that philosophy was certainly the motivation behind choosing the airline. The conversation never would have gone: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, I gotta take Hooters Air flight 109 to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:place></st1:city> for a meeting.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Rather it would have sounded like: </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, I gotta go to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Atlanta</st1:place></st1:city> for a meeting, but I’m taking Hooters Air!” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Hooters Air people were marketing the flight on the plane <i>as </i>the vacation, not the means to get to the vacation. They were hoping they could get you to forget how ludicrous the thought of Hooters Air is by making it seem like an event, or at the very least an interesting conversation starter. Other airlines boast about the destinations they take you, not so much the flight itself. If they do mention the flight, it’s to tell you about what little creations they’ve come up with to make the whole unfortunate experience more bearable. More leg-room, leather cushions, forcing fat people to buy two seats, and they go on and on. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Aren’t you being a little ridiculous</i>? Yes. I am. Whichever ad-man came up the slogan was probably just trying to stress the point that this time when you duel over the stewardess, you needn’t feel like a sex offender. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>But, still. The idea that getting there could be all the fun was a notion that I could never quite relinquish. It festered and bubbled inside of me, until the idea that I would live my life without endlessly traveling, without wandering for the sake of wandering, became absolutely unbearable. It seemed that Hooters had succeeded in blue-balling me, though certainly not in the manner they anticipated. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was this anxiety that led me to wander out on my own after college, to join Americorps (and then join it again), to forgo laundry and groceries to have money for weekend trips, and ultimately to relocate to New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And now I’m here, in <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>, the great <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>, and most of the time all I want to do is leave.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> is so massive that weeks and months can melt away before I realize that I haven’t left the five boroughs even once. (I should just say four. Who goes to <st1:place w:st="on">Staten Island</st1:place>?)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Anyone who grew up in the suburbs will agree; the idea that you could go more then a weekend without leaving one town is crazy. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Plymouth</st1:place></st1:city> didn’t even have a Wendy’s until I was 22!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The downside to one place providing everything you could possible need is that you never need to go to another place. <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state> is like one giant Super Wal-Mart. Big Apple aficionados will counter by saying that New York is so disparate from block to block that it’s like traveling thru limitless locales, arguing there’s more diversity in a dozen Manhattan blocks then all of the Dakotas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And they would be right. I could travel thru the entire American south and never come across a good Venezuelan <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cachapa, </i>or I could take a five minute walk during my lunch break and score a great one. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But for me, there is something about staying in one geographical location for a length of time that drives me bonkers, just the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">idea</i> that I’m not stretching out, that I’m becoming grounded. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Two good friends of mine are leaving the city next month. My roommate left last month. None of them seemed to acclimate to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>. For all the things they liked about the city, none of them ever felt it held a candle to what back home could offer them. So after a trial period they are moving home, and they are positively ecstatic. I get this horrible feeling that I will end up bitter too, that I will – such as those patrons of Hooters Air - want to just up and leave simply because I haven’t up and left in a while. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">But that would mean giving up, and I can’t do that. Not this year at least. Maybe not in five years. Maybe I was ignorant to think that chasing my dream would be a constantly amazing and life-affirming ride, propelled along simply by the fact that “I’m going for it,” and not a reality check: a confidence-crushing, bank-account-depleting, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>self-degrading struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Maybe I was ignorant to think it would be so much fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">(It is fun a lot, too. Let me take a moment here to apologize for how whiny and self-loathing this post got all of the sudden. Not sure what happened. Maybe I should have some cookies.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">I have to remember there is a purpose, a goal I’m working towards, and when I reach that goal this will all be so incredibly worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And if I never reach it, it will still be worth it, because it will just give me another place to escape from, another destination to start the car from and hit the road, or get on the jet plane. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>On to the next one, on to the next one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-42616384655286437982010-08-03T20:01:00.004-04:002010-08-03T21:20:39.832-04:00And Mr. Gaffigan Came, Too<div class="MsoNormal">Like pink flamingoes belong on the front lawn, I belong in the basement. A basement, it seems, is the only place in which I am fit to perform. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s nice actually, such an accurate physical manifestation of my stature in the comedy world. It couldn’t be any less subtle if I performed all my shows on the bottom rung of a ladder. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">There were the countless mics at basement comedy clubs like The Comedy Corner or East Ville Comedy, the Wednesday motel mics in the basement of the Village Lantern, the mic at the Tangine actually called My Grandmother’s Basement, all of which gave me the impression that the road to top is paved with leaky faucets and menacing furnaces. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">At least Ochi’s Lounge, the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chelsea</st1:place></st1:city> club underneath Comix - pretty much the big papa of New York Comedy Clubs – is lovely, easily nicer and hipper and hotter-bartendered then any number of above-ground comedy clubs.&nbsp; I’ve performed here twice, both times as part of the I’ve Got Munchies variety show, which has got to be among the most interesting shows in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TFisPNTmLsI/AAAAAAAAACA/NYs-6Vbesrs/s1600/P1040027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TFisPNTmLsI/AAAAAAAAACA/NYs-6Vbesrs/s320/P1040027.JPG" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>Look! Pictures!</b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Why so interesting? &nbsp;Well - first you have the Munchie’s-produced comedy videos which elicit reactions ranging from silent bewilderment to roaring laughter. Then there are the performers, everything from desperate stand-ups (that would be me) to affable storytellers; from naturally-funny magicians to twin-brother comedy duos in matching suits.&nbsp; There was one man from my first show whose entire act was shoving whole meals into his mouth and then speaking as clearly as he could. The crowd loved him.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">The producers of the show are also not what you expect from someone booking an important room on a Saturday night. They are the wonderfully irrepressible Jenn Dodd and Sharon Jamilkowski, two ladies who seem incapable of displaying emotions other than jubilation. When Jenn thanked me for doing her show, a show where she gave me a drink ticket and which I didn’t have to pay to do, I was flabbergasted. I’ve reached a point where I feel indebted to anyone who doesn’t out-and-out screw me over. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">There’s also the name, &nbsp;<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve Got Munchies.</i> This is clearly intended to conjure up images of marijuana-induced snack-food binges (of which, mother, I know nothing about) but in truth refers to the group’s ultimate goal to combine comedy routines with easy to follow dinner recipes.&nbsp; Go figure. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">Since I’ve moved to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> last year, one of the better lessons I’ve learned is that a spectacular failure, something crazy and embarrassing and altogether unforgettable, is preferable to a moderate, garden-variety success. Everyone remembers that diminutive Asian man who became an instant celebrity “butchering” Ricky Martin and no one in the world has any idea who the hell Taylor Hicks is. (Indeed, I had to Google American Idol winners for this reference.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">In this vein, the I’ve Got Munchies’ variety show seems leagues ahead of other Big Apple shows even when acts or videos (or some of my jokes) fail.&nbsp; Even when jokes bomb, I found myself thinking: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">finally, something different.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TFithnMOJJI/AAAAAAAAACQ/eImXVwdNhQA/s1600/ochi3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TFithnMOJJI/AAAAAAAAACQ/eImXVwdNhQA/s320/ochi3.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>There's me...&nbsp;</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">Adding to the overall oddball experience, last Saturday night I unexpectedly opened for Jim Gaffigan, one of the most successful and recognizable stand-ups in the country. &nbsp;Undoubtedly the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">high point</st1:place></st1:city> of my comedy career and it all took place in a basement. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">I’ve heard of superstar comics doing drop-ins before. Grizzled, open mic veterans are awash with accounts of the times Myc Kaplan or Bill Burr popped in to do some time right after their own set. These comedians always come off desperate, like when a middle-aged guy can’t get over the time his cover band opened for the remains of Lynyrd Skynyrd. But when it happened to me I suddenly understood. To so many comics who never flirt with greatness, to so many comics, like myself, who truly believe that they have inside them the capacity for greatness but will most certainly never attain it, simply sharing the stage with someone who has made it can be a life-defining event. If in 20 years I look back to the night I worked the same crowd with Jim Gaffigan as my crowning comic achievement, I will be supremely disappointed. But it’s better to have that then nothing. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">He did not see my set, unfortunately. I was pretty good. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">He came after I went on stage and he left after his own set. I fantasized about him seeing me in action, about hearing the laughter, about noticing the two applause breaks I received, and then rushing to phone his agent. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Art, you gotta get down here, this guy is killing! </i>And just like that I am whisked away into a world of stand-up royalty where Last Comic Standing has to beg <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> to audition.&nbsp; But that was not to be, of course. I settled on sharing 22-dollar shots of whisky with Scoots. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TFitucwyBHI/AAAAAAAAACY/5RgvjwzMYJo/s1600/ochi2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ufyUFFCKQYg/TFitucwyBHI/AAAAAAAAACY/5RgvjwzMYJo/s320/ochi2.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>...And there's Jim. Proof! (This will be as big as I ever get.)</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">I don’t begrudge Jim Gaffigan for showing and then blowing, for the ease in which he arrives at any show he pleases and gets on stage. I am jealous but not bitter. That’s just what becomes of the big boys and he certainly worked hard to be there. Sure, it’s funny that to him this is a bush-league show good for testing unproven material and for me it is marquee, a time to roll out my red-carpet goods, but it’s not unexpected. Comix, remember, is upstairs.&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 273.0pt;">And besides, it’s a win-win for everyone.&nbsp; Jimmy G. gets to try new stuff to a receptive, human audience, I’ve Got Munchies gets to forever advertise that they’ve booked the likes of Jim Gaffigan, and I get to forever regal my friends with the tale of the time I opened for a legend.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe, just maybe, I’ll meet him on the first-floor one day.</div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-49060047499875333732010-07-21T20:55:00.000-04:002010-07-21T20:55:05.251-04:00Here You Have It.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The Stones Tavern is in Greenpoint, a neighborhood north of <st1:city w:st="on">Williamsburg</st1:city>, Brooklyn just before <st1:place w:st="on">Queens</st1:place>. Greenpoint is virtually indistinguishable from its neighbor to the south; it’s just as inaccessible and just as rampant with that flippant <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it’s-cost-so-much-to-look-so-poor </i>chic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But the mic at the Stones Tavern is free and the pretty blonde bartender talks nonstop and doesn’t seem to mind that I only order water and don’t tip, so I go here frequently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">There’s also this show at Abigail’s Lounge on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Classon Ave</st1:address></st1:street> in <st1:placename w:st="on">Crown</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Heights</st1:placetype>, <st1:place w:st="on">Brooklyn</st1:place>. Classon is the western-most avenue of the <st1:placename w:st="on">Crown</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Heights</st1:placetype> neighborhood, and for long stretches <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Classon Avenue</st1:address></st1:street> more closely resembles the more affluent <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Prospect</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Heights</st1:placetype></st1:place> section it straddles. Abigail’s Lounge is a perfect example, as this trendy, darkly-lit wine bar with it’s mostly white clientele bears little resemblance to the bodegas and Crown Fried Chickens and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Trinidadian Doubles Shops only a few blocks east on Nostrand. I imagine that the residents of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real </i>Crown Height’s streets like Nostrand and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Utica</st1:city></st1:place> wouldn’t even consider Classon a part of the neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>(Though, to be honest, it’s likely that these people wouldn’t even think about such trivialities, as to them <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Crown</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Heights</st1:placetype></st1:place> is simply home, not some distinction to be mulled over and collected by imperializing suburban outsiders.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The show at Abigail’s is every Tuesday and is called fittingly <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Comedy</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Heights</st1:placetype></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Lately, I’ve been spending Tuesday nights at the Positively Awesome show at Cellar 58 in the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">East</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Village</st1:placetype></st1:place>. (Look! I go to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city>, too!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Like Abigail’s, Cellar 58 is a wine bar, although a more legitimate one. The microphone stand is placed at the back of the backroom of the Cellar, in front of pristine glass doors encasing shelf after shelf of wine bottles. The comics are under strict house guidelines to not even touch the glass. The room is small and narrow and occupied almost entirely by a Bruce Wayne-esque long wood table. The audience sits around on stools and watches the comic who performs at the head of the table. This setup gives performer and audience alike the feeling they are at an alternate version of The Last Supper, where after Jesus breaks bread and accuses one of his disciples of betrayal he gets up and does his five minutes. (Though if I had 12 people to watch my set, I would be totally stoked.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">These are the shows I’ve been hitting frequently over the last few weeks, a combination of trying to avoid soul-crushing paid club mics and my desire to do shows with people I know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And Abigail’s is like, a five a minute walk from my apartment. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Positively Awesome is a show produced by Abbi Crutchfield and Andrew Singer. Abbi was the host of the very first mic I did in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city>, the Root Hill Café last November. Oh, <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>, how you make 9 months seem like 9 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The Root Hill show seems to have vanished, but Abbi and Andrew started P.A. in February and it continues strong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The regular lineup features touring and local comedians, some friends of the producers who run their own shows, and some national, semi-famous headliners (Christian Finnegan and Ted Alexandro next week? Um, holy shit.) After the booked acts, P.A. switches to the Night Shift, a five spot open mic for anyone who would like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It’s a wonderful idea and it’s all executed in an easy-breezy 90-minute package. Good stuff. I was actually on board to help promote the show when it started several months back, but typical of myself, I did it for a couple weeks and forgot about it and was too lazy and I could go on an on. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>Who has a blog and is going to try and weasel his way back into this show? Answer: this guy. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">Comedy Heights is in the basement of Abigail’s, in a room that looks not so much like a comedy venue and more like well, a basement. There’s a black-leather couch and a few scattered stools and benches facing a microphone flanked on each side by plants. It’s quite lovely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>The last time I worked <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Comedy</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Heights</st1:placetype></st1:place> was the week before my Americorps show, and this set served as a final dress rehearsal for my clean set.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I showed up 20 minutes before the show started which is 90 minutes prior to when the show actually began. I stayed the entire show with the four people I brought, but decided on principle to not watch the “headliner” who watched not a single comic, showed up at the end and acted irate that I was leaving with my audience. I hate that shit. The host heckled me on the way out and said he would never book me again, despite the fact that getting “booked” on <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Comedy</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Heights</st1:placetype></st1:place> requires little more then calling that morning and asking if you can be on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I can guarantee that if I call next Tuesday morning, he will put me on without a second thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The Stones Tavern is a weird place. A lot of establishments frame their “first” dollar on the wall as a keepsake, and it’s kitschy but endearing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>The Stones Tavern takes this to a whole new level, as the entire wall of the bar is adorned with literally hundreds of hung bills, including fives, tens, and <i>even twenties</i>! I spent at least a half an hour trying to count the money and gave up somewhere north of five hundred dollars. The bartender had no idea how much was actually up there. &nbsp;I couldn’t help but think this money could be put too much better use in the hands of a food bank or the pockets of a struggling amateur comedian. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">The Stones mic is a Brooklyn Underground Comedy show. Greenpoint is way too much of a bitch to get home from to risk going on at 11:30, so I always show up at the Stones Tavern nice and early to ensure a good spot. This usually leaves me alone at the bar an hour before any other comic shows up, and on one occasion I talked with one of the bartenders and she let me on the secret of the Stones Tavern, that being that is was named in honor of the Rolling Stones by the owner who is obsessed with the band, and instantly this became one of my favorite bars in the city, perhaps the world. I started to grill the bartender on why there weren’t pictures of the band on the walls or any of their music playing. This line of questioning escalated to the point where it seemed like I actually hurt the poor woman’s feelings, and I felt terribly guilty. It reminded me of how I felt after I got into an argument with a high school classmate over the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on">Iraq</st1:country-region></st1:place> war and how stupid the protesters who walked out of class were and she started to cry. (If by someway someday she ever reads this, I am so so so sorry. I was so incredibly wrong.) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10.0pt;">So there you have it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>This weekend I have two great shows, and I feel good again. Thanks for sticking with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Evening.&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-18643429589015462702010-07-08T12:26:00.002-04:002010-07-08T12:26:51.742-04:00Lunchtime Post: A Proper Blogger<div class="MsoNormal">I have come up with an experiment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I have an hour to kill at lunch and ever since discovering our break room has wireless, I’ve brought my laptop to work each day with the expressed purpose being to work on jokes, blogs and stories, but surprise surprise I’ve spent just about every lunch endlessly browsing Facebook and Wikipedia-ing everything from poison ivy to assorted brands of General Mills cereal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I tend to lose focus, in other words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So I’m going to try to maximize my lunch break by speed-writing a blog and posting it that same day. Hopefully I can pull this off a couple times a week, and that will help people maintain their sanity during the increasingly long intervals between longer posts, the ones I write at home in my underwear, like a proper blogger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Be advised however, that these Lunchtime Posts, as I have just now christened them, will be harried, and as such, not the 1500 word, multifaceted blog stews of which you perhaps have become accustomed. No, these will be whatever comes to mind and will be written in between spoonfuls of Cup-o-Noodles and falling peanut butter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">ANYWAY, this is my first Lunchtime Post, and seeing as I’ve already wasted 15 minutes explaining it, I best be begin. This is what comes to mind. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I was foraging thru my cell phone on the subway today (cell phones become nothing but digital phonebooks without service, yet I can’t help compulsively checking it on the ride in) and I stumbled upon a seldom-used feature: the template function. The template is a feature in just about any cell phone, and it’s basically nothing but a short list of pre-equipped text messages that can be utilized by the texter in a hurry. The messages are usually what the phone deems to be the most commonly used texts, generic statements like: “Running late, be there in a few” and “Where are currently located?” etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>I can’t understand why anyone would be in such a hurry that the 11 seconds saved sending the template would actually be helpful. But the templates do have one redeeming feature: they can be edited. So if I’m always running late to work, I can edit my templates to say “Running late, Mr.Tewilliger, be there in a few,” or if I can never find my dealer I can modify it to “Where are you currently located, White Rabbit?” and the fun can literally go on and on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>But the most fun I found, and what kept me away from my book on the commute, was to completely edit the template to near nonsense, to make the messages so absurdly specific they can almost certainly never be used. After a few stops on the A train, I had completely modified my templates. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I found the 7<sup>th</sup> template <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just checking in… </i>to be completely useless and so I changed it to the far more direct <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Have You Been Bee-Keeping Again?!</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>You never know when that may come in handy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I totally deleted the lame <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What are you up to? </i>and replaced it with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t Tell Margaret, but Charles is smoking again</i>, and I can’t tell you how many times I’ve to laboriously type out this text in the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Other templates include <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I left the steaks defrosting in the sink. No more salad for dinner! </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The car wouldn’t start this morning, I’d call mother for a ride…If she were still with us </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span></i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">These will never be used of course, but at the very least, if someone finds my phone after I die, they will assume I lived a very interesting life. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">On this subject, I have always thought that juice bottles, which are fond of placing esoteric phrases on the bottoms of their caps, should adopt my program. Rather then having your Cranberry Tea’s cap advising you to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smile! Today is a new day </i>why not have it proclaim <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dan, do not got to work today, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Chelsea</st1:place></st1:city> is very upset</i>? For millions of tea enthusiasts, this cap will invoke only head scratches, but one day, a Dan will have a hankering for Cranberry Tea, and that Dan will have a job, and at that job will be a woman named Chelsea and wallah! Dan’s life is changed forever. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And now time is running out on my lunchtime post. I think this went well. Expect more. (Unless you really hate them. So let me know.)</div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-22820412385231850772010-06-28T20:38:00.007-04:002010-06-28T23:04:59.432-04:00The Great Unifier.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Look. Dicks are <i>funny</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I would argue they’re hilarious and comically vital, but leave it to some dickhead out there to quip <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gee you really like dicks huh</i> and all of the sudden it’s back to therapy for this guy.&nbsp; So I’ll just leave it at dicks are funny. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Spend a few nights at any old open mic and count the number of dick jokes you hear. You’ll be floored. The jokes don’t even require the word dick in them to be considered dick jokes; all sex jokes are in essence, dick jokes.&nbsp; Lesbian comics doing lesbian sex jokes are doing dick jokes too, it’s just they’re talking <i>lack </i>of dicks. They may not use dicks to get off, but they use dicks to get laughs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Of course, ole’ Gregory Richard (Dick) Quinn, loves a good ole’ dick joke for what ails ya. &nbsp;Here is my set from the video in the post “For the Remarkably Wise and Handsome,” (which since being rejected for their contest, I would like to heretofore rename “For the Remarkably Fucking Stupid and I’ve heard Anti-Semitic):<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>Cell phone porn joke</b>:&nbsp; Dick Joke.&nbsp; (About choking yourself while touching your dick.)<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>Derek Jeter joke</b>: Dick Joke. (About how thoughtful Derek Jeter is while sucking a dick.)<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>Blood Donation Joke:</b>&nbsp; Dick joke (About how you can’t give blood if you’re a guy and you like dick.)<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>Sex Toy Joke</b>: Dick Joke. (About how girls give other girls a personal fake dick.)<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>Vegetarians Joke</b>: Hey! Not really a Dick Joke! (Although I do make a connection between vegetarians and homosexuals, which is a type of man who likes dick.)<o:p></o:p></span></li></ol><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I had a total of 1 joke that wasn’t wholly a dick joke and I threw in a subtle dick reference. It’s like I couldn’t stop myself!&nbsp;&nbsp; (OK, maybe I’m going back to therapy after all.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">So you can imagine when I was booked to produce a show for the Americorps Alums Pre-Conference party last night and then informed I would need to keep the set PG, I was terrified. NO DICK JOKES?! That’s like watching a baseball game with no bats; it’s like booking the Rolling Stones to perform and asking them not to play any songs with references to drugs or gay sex.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">They asked me to do 15 minutes. If I eliminate all references to sex, dicks, vaginas, porn, breasts, etc, I’m left with maybe 2 and half minutes of material. Clearly I needed to do some writing. I also needed to find three other comics.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">This part was easy.&nbsp; I had my ideal lineup in mind almost immediately, and it went exactly as planned. The show last night at Connolly’s Pub went: Emma Willman, Doug Smith, Julia Bond, and me, and when you throw in the complimentary mozzarella sticks and pizza bagels, I dare say you couldn’t find a better comedy show in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">And, for the most part (Emma’s accidental string of f-bombs aside) we did a clean set! And it was still funny! I had not previously known this to be possible.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">For me, getting to this point was difficult.&nbsp; I had been trying more and more clean material lately, and it’s been a precarious process. Dick jokes are a fallback, a fail safe, they are what we in the comedy business call <i>Hack Jokes</i>. Less creative comics use penis references in their jokes when they aren’t confident enough that their material can work without them. Because we know people are going to laugh when you talk about&nbsp; your genitals. There is still enough unease in the public mention of sex and reproductive organs to elicit uncomfortable laughter from people. They laugh because they still feel like they’re partaking in something naughty or reproachable. (And in our world, that’s kind of amazing.)<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">To be sure, there are comics who work sex jokes or blue material into their set in a unique and decidedly not-hacky way, but talking about choking yourself while masturbating to porn on your cell phone is pretty much the textbook definition of hack, blue material.&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">In preparation for last night’s show, I spent two weeks at mics working PG material. I riffed on every subject I could think of that made no reference to a dick or what a person may choose to do with a dick. I wrote bits about Hamlet, Dunkin Donuts, baseball, Poison Control, R.L. Stine, my dad, the New Jersey Nets, the WNBA and all sorts of untrue stories about my relationship with Amy and an imaginary pet dog. Some of these worked; some bombed. So it goes, as they say.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">A few of these jokes made it to my set last night. I imagined the jokes that made the cut felt a sort of pride for making it to the big show and constantly ridiculed the failed bits as “strictly open mic material.” &nbsp;Last night’s show was for Americorps, an organization I know very well, so I was able to throw in a horde of Americorps-related jokes that I (correctly) imagined the audience would just eat up. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">&nbsp;~~~~~~~~~~~<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I stood in the audience last night waiting for the show to begin, engaging in my typical pre-show ritual of pacing and near-vomiting.&nbsp; As the other comics went on I felt almost as nervous for them as myself, because if they bombed, I'd look like an idiot for thinking they were funny. Fortunately, they were great.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I met Emma in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city> last summer in a comedy class and we became instant friends. I think she is great. She has a delivery like she’s been doing it for years and works harder to make it in comedy then anyone I know. I speak highly enough of her that one day Amy remarked: “I’m really glad Emma is a lesbian or otherwise I would be really jealous.”&nbsp; Emma did, however, let a few of the f-bombs fly, but everyone laughed and the booker said that it was totally fine. (It’s seems hypocritical anyway to say “Hey, have some free beer everyone! But don’t expect any swear words!”) <o:p></o:p></span></li></ol><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ol start="2" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Doug I had only seen a few times before at open mics.&nbsp; When I brought Doug on stage last night, I told the crowd that when I heard I needed to book other comics, Doug was the first one that came to mind. And I meant it.&nbsp; I remember being scared for a moment; I had only seen him 2 or 3 times and it had been a while. What if I had a skewed memory? But I didn’t. He went on second and killed, and I remembered why I wanted him specifically. Because my favorite joke of his – one of the better jokes I’ve heard since moving here – is totally devoid of a dick reference. <o:p></o:p></span></li></ol><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ol start="3" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">&nbsp;Julia has become what I call my comedy sponsor. When an alcoholic fears relapse he gets a sponsor to call at all hours of the night and remind him that no drink tastes as good as being sober feels. That’s what Julia is for me. When she’s not performing, she’s starting all-woman comedy shows and performing with actually-good improv troupes. And when I feel like I want to quit, Julia tells me to stop being a whiny little bitch and keep going. She’s also a great comic, because let’s face it; being a good friend alone wouldn’t have made me choose her as the penultimate performer. <o:p></o:p></span></li></ol><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ol start="4" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Then there was me. I went on in the end and &nbsp;- despite a few tiny references to a certain phallic body part - delivered a predominantly clean set. And people laughed. And afterwards they bought me drinks and asked me to get everyone together for a picture, and offered me lines of coke and their daughter’s virginity. (Please note: I have begun to lie about a few of these.) I am much more prone to self-loathing than gloating, but I think I did pretty good.<o:p></o:p></span></li></ol><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">No one is asking me for PG material anymore. I’m free to go R baby, watch out Derek Jeter!&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Will I? <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Not as much as before, because I feel good when clean jokes work. But I’ll still go dirty some of the time. I have to. Dicks are too funny to abandon them completely, and truth be told? Everyone loves them. Perhaps only in a comedy sense, they are the great unifier.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-13833369389927880212010-06-21T19:14:00.002-04:002010-07-11T12:13:50.541-04:00With Apologies to Gregory Quail.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I did a booked mic at the Village Lantern not so many days ago, and the waitress (a dark haired, ethnically indeterminable woman) greeted me in the basement room where the mic was held and immediately asked what I'd like to drink. Seeing as I was early and a first-timer in this room, I asked her if I was in the right place, and she hadn’t the slightest idea what I was talking about, forcing me to head outside in a panic and phone the booker, who informed me that yes, I was just where I was supposed to be.&nbsp; This story is apropos of nothing. I just thought it was a classic indication of the relative<i> ramshackleness</i> of even the most established of open mics. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The Village Lantern is down on <st1:street w:st="on"><st1:address w:st="on">Bleeker Street</st1:address></st1:street> in <st1:place w:st="on">Greenwich Village</st1:place>, only a few blocks from both the Bitter End and The Grisly Pear, two subjects of past blogs which I’m sure you all remember. The top floor was a typically classy <st1:place w:st="on">Lower Manhattan</st1:place> bar, but it was in the basement where the Wednesday Motel open mic was held and the basement was a different story; a dark, squalid room.&nbsp; I was the first comic there and waited in loneliness for any signs of other human life. I explored the basement room a little.&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The dingy bathrooms were at the terminus of an even dingier hallway that began just to the right of the stage.&nbsp; Each stall was their own independent room; a small chamber with only a toilet and a mirror-less sink flanking in to the left.&nbsp; The inside was actually quite pleasant, as a quiet and isolated room is a rare commodity in this part of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city>. The walls were covered in rapidly crumbling, presumably decade-old red paint, and years of pornography consumption had me instinctively searching for a waist-high hole in the wall, perhaps with a stalwart penis poking thru in search of gratification.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">After twenty minutes or so, other comics finally arrived and I took a seat&nbsp; in the back of the room in my favorite open-mic location; right near a door in order to facilitate a swift exit should the need arise. The host of the show was comedian Ray Combs, son of the late Ray Combs Senior, the iconic host of Family Fued who hanged himself with his hospital bedsheets only a few years after his version of the Fued was cancelled.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">(I say iconic because I mean it. For people my age, Ray Combs <i>is</i> the Bob Barker of Family Fued, the host we identify with as inseparable from the show. Ray Combs was the host of the show while we stayed home sick at Grandma’s, the host who hosted weekdays after school. Ray Combs was the voice emulated on the Sega Genesis version of Fued and made a celeb appearance at Wrestlemania VIII for goodness sakes.)&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I sat in the rear of the Lantern basement, aware of who Ray Combs Jr. was and aware that if I were to write a blog about this mic, I would like to make mention of his father's suicide. But I felt distinctly guilty, like I had no right. &nbsp;I don’t know Combs Jr. personally, this isn't my place. I made up mind to make no allusions to the tragic&nbsp;<i>Fued</i> host and his demise, planning to skirt around the issue by giving Combs Jr. a fake blog name as I am prone to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">This was all until Ray Combs Jr. got into the flow of his act and made not one, but several jokes about his famous father and the way in which he perished.&nbsp; Ray Combs Jr. &nbsp;reveled that his grandfather <i>also</i> committed suicide and if things stayed the same, maybe he would tighten the ole’ hospital bed-sheet himself.&nbsp; After all that, I felt at least permitted to make mention of the fact here. Not that I am offended that he would joke about such a tragedy, I’m actually quite impressed and inspired by his candor, (see the quote at the top of this page) but I do get the impression from his set that the subject is an acceptable one to broach.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Combs Jr. was an aggressive, offensive but altogether entertaining and funny host. The main subject of his material, his downtrodden existence and his near-misses at celebrity (my favorite story: how he impregnated Miss San Diego 2005) was constantly hilarious, and while he made fun of nearly every comic who went on stage, he seemed to have a legitimate affinity for them, as if he considered his fellow comics a&nbsp; brotherhood. Ray Combs Jr. spent an inordinate amount of time trying to convince one woman comic to partake in a Byzantine&nbsp;<i>I’ll-expose-my-testicles-if-you-expose-your-vagina </i>deal that was to commence on stage and to pretty much everyone’s chagrin, he failed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">All of this left me fairly excited to see what comments Combs Jr. would have for my set. But I never got the opportunity. Despite being the first comic at the Wednesday Motel, I was one of the very last to go on stage. The mic was a lottery sign-up. After all the comics were present and accounted for, their names were put in a bowl and the order was drawn. It seemed early on that luck was not on my side. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">By the time I went on, Combs Jr. had left for another set and was replaced by an affable, but not as exciting &nbsp;host. I did my set and kind of bombed. I had clearly picked the wrong set to try some new “clean” material I’d been working on, but was too stubborn to change my jokes once I arrived at the show.&nbsp; &nbsp;After my set I contemplated leaving, but seeing as there were only 2 or 3 comics yet to go, I decided to stick around. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">It was lucky I did.&nbsp; A <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Wednesday</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Motel</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">Mic</st1:placename></st1:place> tradition dictates that at the end of each show, a name is drawn from the sign-up bowl, and that person receives half of the door back; last Wednesday that equaled 40 dollars, hard cash.&nbsp;&nbsp; I heard the new host tell us this and sat up in anticipation because I had the distinct feeling that fate had kept me at that mic, fate had wanted me to have those 40 dollars.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">And I was almost right. Fate actually wanted Gregory Quail to have that money, at least that’s how the random dude who was chosen to draw read the name on the slip of white-lined paper. I rationalized that this was close enough to Gregory Quinn, and that if there were an actual Gregory Quail, he was probably taking a leak in those frightening bathrooms anyway. I raised my hand, said<i> right over here</i>, and made off 40 large like a bandit.&nbsp;&nbsp; My second paid gig.&nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-69750519222040369942010-06-09T23:05:00.006-04:002010-06-10T17:29:20.567-04:00At the Bitter End.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I’m standing in the catacombs of the Bitter End, listening to girls pee.&nbsp;&nbsp; We thought we arrived early enough; storytelling wasn’t set to begin for another 45 minutes. We were under the impression this was plenty of time to ensure us comfortable seats, feet from the stage.&nbsp; We were wrong. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Amy and I were on the corner of Bleeker and Laguardia when we spotted the line of fans snaking down the block. I was certain this was not meant for us; I mean I know <i>I like</i> the idea of hearing amateurs telling awkward stories from their childhood on a Monday afternoon, but all these hip youngsters? Not a chance.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">But the line was for the Bitter End, indeed was for the Moth’s quarter-monthly storytelling show, the StorySlam.&nbsp; Amy and I took our place at the end of the line, feeling what little Ralphie must have felt as he desperately waited at Macy’s for his chance to speak to Santa.&nbsp;&nbsp; It looked as if we would never get inside, but we found our way in thanks to the Bitter End’s desire to ignore every conceivable fire code.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The Bitter End was a long, thin bar, with a stage on the right wall and a bar to the left. The wall above the shelves of liquor was covered with a staple of the hipster bar: oil paintings of musicians just old and un-cool enough to be trendy, the type of wall I look at blankly before declaring <i>Hey, Isn’t that Frank Sinatra? </i><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I fought my way to the bar and ordered myself another staple of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Manhattan</st1:place></st1:city> haunts, the 9-dollar beer.&nbsp; Equipped with our drinks, Amy and I began our fruitless search for seats. Inching around the bearded and bespectacled crowd, careful not to step on shoes or spill a splash on somebody’s lovely cardigan, it became clear we would have to stand.&nbsp; Not just anywhere, but right in the only unclaimed territory in the Bitter End, the hallway to the ladies bathroom.&nbsp; We stood nestled together, in an almost standing-spoon, borne not out of affection but out of sheer necessity.&nbsp; Whatever romantic implications this position may have yielded were overshadowed by the sound of the toilet flushing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The Moth StorySlam works like this: <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Every week a different storytelling event is held in bars all over <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> (or more realistically, all over downtown.)&nbsp; Each event is open to amateurs, and each night has a theme. Usually one word, ambiguous themes like Earth, Scars, or Dues.&nbsp; The theme last Monday at the Bitter End was “Fakes.” &nbsp;&nbsp;Upon entering the event and forking over seven dollars, anyone who wishes to tell a story may enter their name in a hat, and ten names are drawn.&nbsp; The ten flannel-clad storytellers each have 6 minutes to story tell and when they finish, they’re summarily judged by three pre-determined groups of “story experts,” as I call them.&nbsp; (On the night of “Fakes,” one group of judges was deemed The Flying Hellfish, and that semi-obscure Simpsons reference was not lost on this guy.)&nbsp;&nbsp; The storyteller with the highest aggregate score is declared winner and moves on to the GrandSlam, for a chance to be crowned champion of the world and enjoy a lifetime of lucrative endorsements and unsolicited blowjobs. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The StorySlam method sucks for the following reason:<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">.It does not guarantee you a spot ahead of time, which means a couple of terrible things. <b>A</b>. You spend your time writing a story for a specific theme, you feel great about it, you find a wonderfully funny, unique perspective to share and then you’re name isn’t called. Heartbreaking. And <b>B</b>. All the same stuff as A, but you also brought a ton of friends and family to watch you perform, and they are excited and proud and totally missing <i>Glee</i>, and then your name isn’t called. Sucks.&nbsp; Look: I understand, the Moth is very popular. As such they probably have dozens of people every week who want to perform, but I don’t understand why they don’t have you sign up online and then email you a week in advance if you’re chosen.&nbsp; Actually, I do understand why they don’t have that option. Because they want you and your wonderful story and your Glee-missing friends to show up and buy your tickets and beer before you realize you’re not going on stage. I’m sorry if I sound bitter. <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> does that to a person.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Some more thoughts from the Moth StorySlam, presented with helpful bullets. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Storytelling does not mean what I thought it meant.&nbsp; I figured you wrote a short-story and read it aloud. Not really. It’s more recounting a personal anecdote in a wistful, nose-wrinkling funny kind of way, like an extended stand-up bit. It’s more of a one man show, like the type performed by Christopher Titus. On that note…<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Why were they all funny anyway? All the storytellers went for funny, which just makes you wonder why they don’t just go for stand-up comedy.&nbsp; Why couldn’t there be serious or sad or yearning? Surely there was someone who could have mined something from their past.&nbsp; On that note…<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Do they have to be true? Do they all have to be in the first person? The MC, a boisterously unfunny fat guy, stated at the onset that the stories were all true. But I couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. The theme was “Fakes.” Perhaps that was his point. On that note…<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Why didn’t anyone expand on the night's theme “Fakes?” Amy pointed out after the show that everyone used the theme to recount a time when they pretended to be someone else or pretended to be good at something they weren’t. No one took it in a different direction;&nbsp;there are plenty of other ways to take the concept of “Fakes.” Amy’s first suggestion was faking an orgasm. Great. <o:p></o:p></span></li></ul><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I may sound a little under whelmed by the Moth, and I guess the truth is I was.&nbsp; It was not as wonderful as my daydreams. But I still want in.&nbsp;&nbsp; I’ll keep you posted.&nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-61423940206078885622010-05-25T17:51:00.005-04:002010-05-26T06:08:50.265-04:00Some Business.<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">“The <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Dresden</st1:city></st1:place> atrocity, tremendously expensive and meticulously planned, was so meaningless, finally, that only one person on the entire planet got any benefit from it. I am that person. I wrote this book, which earned a lot of money for me and made my reputation, such as it is. One way or another, I got two or three dollars for every person killed. Some business I'm in.</span>”&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 10pt;">- Kurt Vonnegut </span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The problem is I’m a comedian. That’s at night time. During the day I clean up playgrounds and occasionally mow the lawn. These activities don’t involve much in the way of adventure. I’m talking good ole fashioned, hair-raising adventure. Sure, I have adventurous things happen to me. Sometimes a homeless person will take a dump in the urinal, and I’ll have to figure out how to remove it using only some rags and a sawed-off broom handle we call the “shit stick,” but that is hardly Indiana Jones swapping the diamond with the sandbag. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I don’t flirt with death, I don’t walk on the wild side, I don’t dance with the devil in the pale moon light.&nbsp;&nbsp; When I go on stage, I may say I “killed,” or I “bombed,” or I had them all “in stitches,” but 90 percent of the time, these are only metaphors. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">In other words, I live a pretty easy, worry-free life. Most of the time that’s just fine, but when you’re trying to be an artist, or a comedian or a writer, it can make things a little difficult. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I’d love to write a memoir. It’s right up my alley. Memoir research presumably consists of reminiscing, looking at pictures, and drunk-dialing old friends. I'd get to focus on the one subject that can hold my attention longer then a limerick: myself.&nbsp; &nbsp;The only problem is that most of the memoirs I read center on some great struggle or affliction, and I don’t know anything about either. &nbsp;I love my parents, but if they had only been Communist Secret Agents who sold me to Red China, it would have made my literary ambitions much easier.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Take a look.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Jon Krakauer was an unknown journalist for <i>Outside Magazine</i> when he was sent to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">climb</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Mt.</st1:placetype></st1:place> Everest for an article on the mountain’s commercialization. &nbsp;Krakauer reached the summit in the midst of the greatest tragedy in Everest’s history. Ultimately what Krakauer produced was not a faceless article called “The Price of Everest,” but “Into Thin Air,” quite likely the greatest mountaineering book ever written. (Find me someone who has read it and disagrees and I’ll buy you a Tab.) Whatever demons sill undoubtedly haunt Krakauer, somewhere in his mind he must realize what doors that tragedy opened up for him, how it provided him the ability to make a living doing what he loves to do. Krakauer is a wonderful writer and would have been without that tragedy, but there are plenty of wonderful writers who only need a chance.&nbsp; However terrible it may be to accept, all those people who died on Everest gave Krakauer his chance. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">Augusten Burroughs is one of the most successful memoirists in the country. &nbsp;When he was 13, Burroughs was abandoned by his mother and sent to live at the family shrink’s place, where he was free to drink, smoke pot and have sex. He entered into a sexual relation ship with the shrink’s 30 year old step-son, which neither the shrink nor Burrough’s mother had a problem with. Then he moved to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> and discovered he was also an alcoholic. &nbsp;A good way to grow up? Probably not.&nbsp; Good fodder for a successful career as a writer? You bet. &nbsp;My mom cut the crust off my PBJ’s until I was 19.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;">I think the craziest example of… oh I don’t know…<i> ironic serendipity</i>, is the case of Ann Rule. Ann Rule was a going-nowhere crime writer in Washington State when she volunteered at the local suicide hotline and hit the jackpot.&nbsp; Sitting next to her every night and swapping stories was a pre-murderous-rampage Ted Bundy. &nbsp;They developed a close friendship, and soon Ann Rule, the failing crime writer, was privy to personal details in the greatest American Crime Story of the 20<sup>th</sup> century. &nbsp;Her subsequent book on the Bundy murders, “The Stranger Beside Me,” made her famous, and she went on to become a prolific writer.&nbsp;</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i>Come on.</i></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"><i></i>&nbsp; That is luck my friends; twisted, violent, nights-wide-awake-tortured-with-guilt luck, but luck nonetheless.&nbsp; I’m sure Ann Rule swears she would give back every penny she made, every published word she wrote, to have just one murder disappear. I’m sure she believes herself when she says it, deep down in her core. But what I’m saying is this: do you think she ever breaks down in the middle of the night, wide awake, and knows she hit the jackpot? &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">And then there’s Vonnegut, who makes it appear the fates are literary minded.&nbsp;&nbsp; I mean, how many people survived the air raid at <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Dresden</st1:place></st1:city>? A hundred?&nbsp; And among that small group was one of the great American writers, clinging to life. &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;His account of <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Dresden</st1:place></st1:city> became his great work, and it made him famous. He acknowledges this freely. I find this incredible, if a little scary.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">So what am I saying? That I want something terrible to happen to me so I can write about it? No. Of course not.&nbsp;&nbsp; It’s just something I’ve been thinking about lately, and I could never intimate that I know what the aforementioned authors went through. These writers are all successful because they were supremely gifted artists who were able to turn their pain into something tangible, and share it with the lucky, pain-free masses. There were other people on that mountain, other people in the slaughterhouse basement, other people shaking hands with the serial killer.&nbsp; They all didn’t write about it.&nbsp;&nbsp;Weaker writers like me may think that a tragedy is all that’s keeping them from penning their magnum opus, conveniently forgetting that Stephen King was never mauled by a rabid dog or murdered by a killer clown.&nbsp;&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The problem is I’m a comedian.&nbsp; &nbsp;I’m more concerned with where that sock went in the laundry.&nbsp; It’s no great adventure, no life-affirming personal struggle, but it’s life too.&nbsp; And I’d like to tell you about it.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-28435208063881228732010-05-21T19:24:00.001-04:002010-05-22T07:38:07.044-04:00At The Buzzer.<div class="MsoNormal">My show at the Grisly Pear last Thursday coincided with Games 6 of the Boston Celtics – Cleveland Cavaliers playoff series. Sucks when that happens.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Celtics were up 3 games to 2, and had a chance to knock out the heavily favored Cavaliers in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>, so this was definitely not one of those <i>get-the-score-on-the-internet-later</i> games. There was no way I could skip the comedy show, leaving me with no other option then to attempt some Mrs. Doubtfire-esque multitasking. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The show was produced by my friends at Comedy Party USA and was a special goodbye to Michael Reardon, who was moving home to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place> later that weekend.&nbsp; Mike, like me, moved here from <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:place></st1:state> to pursue a career in stand-up comedy. At least that’s what I figured; I don’t really know what his intentions were.&nbsp; He lived here for five years and now he is moving home and while he never became famous he performed all the time and is one of the happier people I know, which has got to be a win. Mike says he’ll keep performing in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>.&nbsp; It never ends. That’s the deal.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">So I was particularly jazzed about this show.&nbsp; Mike told me I’d be going on first (they always save the best comics for first) and I had a moment of panic where I considered ditching my new material because I didn’t want to open the show with a thud, but eventually went with my new stuff and even dusted off a couple golden oldies. The set went fine and my work was done only 12 minutes into the show.&nbsp; More and more people came to the Grisly Pear as the show went on, and I missed out on the liveliest, drunkest crowd. Sucks when that happens.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was no matter any how, because now it was game time.&nbsp; The comedy show was in the back room, behind the bar, so I had no place to watch the game. I could, however, hear the decidedly pro-Celtic crowd rip-roaring at the bar TV, and as I listened I had that distinct feeling of missing out, like when all your friends talk about how awesome that party you skipped was.&nbsp; I had to watch.&nbsp; Problem was, I wanted to be a professional, so the post-Michael Reardon era Comedy Party USA would still book me.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My first plan of attack was the classic <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I shouldn’t have broken the seal bathroom </span>strategy. This is the one where you go to pee every 4 minutes and then stand in the bar to catch a few glimpses of the game. Your friends assume you are on cocaine or worse - you have diarrhea - but it’s a very effective strategy regardless. After a quarter and a half of this, I was beginning to look absurd. I switched to plan two: texting my brother for constant updates.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Usually this is a poor way to watch a playoff game, but when your brother is Harry Quinn, it’s a delightfully oddball experience. Only months ago, my brother was a devout anti-texter. (“If I want to talk to someone, I’ll just call them” – Idiot.) Now he’s a mad-text lunatic, and I couldn’t be happier, especially at playoff time.&nbsp; He’s the most frantic, simultaneously excited and infuriated play-by-play guy ever.&nbsp; He’s as excitable as Marv Albert around a pile of lingerie and an unbitten woman’s back.&nbsp; Random gametime texts from Harry include:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">“This is so bullshit. The refs are throwing the game on purpose. The NBA wants …HOLY FUCKIN SHIT LEBRON WAS CALLED FOR A TRAVEL!&nbsp; IT’S A MIRACLE!”</li></ul><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">“Fuck…Fuck. Damn. Hell. Wait….KGGGGGGGG!” </li></ul><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><ul style="margin-top: 0in;" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">“Would you kill a close friend if it meant the Celtics won the finals?”</li></ul><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">And so on.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">You got to love his passion, and in the end it inspires me. I skip the penultimate comic to watch the climax of the game (I return for Mike, the finale, of course) and jeopardize my connection. They might not have noticed however, a lot of people were drunk. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">As you probably know, the Celtics went on to win, pulling off a sizeable upset considering the Cavaliers were the odds-on favorite and the Celtics were washed-up geezers.&nbsp; I couldn’t miss that.&nbsp; The Celtics (sentimental hogwash alert) mean too much to me.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I think as you grow older, once the unqualified adulation for athletes that you have as a child wears off, what draws you back to sports teams is a sense of loyalty.&nbsp; I used to feel that for all four <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city> teams, now I just feel it for the C’s.&nbsp; People often identify a team with a specific period of their life. Nostalgia for that time can convince a fan to keep coming back to the team.&nbsp; For me, it was the 2008 Celtic’s Championship run. I was a Celtics fan before then; I started getting into the C’s during their Paul Pierce-Antoine Walker-Walter McCarty glory days (sigh) but it was this run that solidified me as a lifetime fan.&nbsp; The 2008 playoffs coincided almost to the day with the two months I lived in Birmingham, Alabama, one of the more trying periods of my life.&nbsp; The job sucked, I was homesick, etc. etc. Virtually the entire time I was in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:state w:st="on">Alabama</st1:state></st1:place>, I had a Celtics playoff game to look forward to and that kept me sane.&nbsp; I used to walk to an Applebees in Ensley, the shittiest ghetto in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Birmingham</st1:place></st1:city>, because I had neither a car nor a television, and I'd watch the game with total strangers. Just about every night.&nbsp;&nbsp; I made friends with all the other Celtics fans, discounting the one who threatened to stab me if I hugged his girlfriend again. (She was also a Celtics fan; Pierce just hit a go-ahead three. We were caught in the moment.)&nbsp; &nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember for the Celtics-Lakers series, Applebees was split in half, <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city> fans bar-left and LA fans bar-right. The TV on the Celtics side was a few seconds ahead. I used to cheer with the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city> fans after a big basket and then run over to the LA side and relive the basket, this time rubbing it in their face. It was great.&nbsp; For those two months alone, I’ll be a Celtics fan forever.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s the loyalty. The Red Sox used to have it, but they lost it, maybe forever. Something about that <i>entire 2004 World-Series Winning Curse-Breaking Yankee-Beating team being wholly juiced up on steroids</i>… thing. That did it for me.&nbsp; When I was a kid, my two pastimes were professional wrestling and Major League Baseball. I think I always knew pro-wrestling was a fake sport; I was never ready to find out baseball was too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I flew off on a tangent there, I know. Forgive me.&nbsp; Hope you enjoyed it anyway.&nbsp; If you did, you’ll be happy to know there are a lot of blogs brewing in my head. They will probably come soon. Just don’t expect one tomorrow. The Celtics are on.&nbsp;&nbsp;</div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-84638232994047494452010-05-18T22:26:00.003-04:002010-05-26T06:21:00.956-04:00I'd Eat the Cheeseburger, Darling.<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I did a bringer and I only brought myself; myself apparently worth $35. &nbsp;Seeing as I refused to bring any friends, the show’s runner insisted I act as my own bringer, and buy my way in like any comedy-fan: $10 ticket and two drink minimum. Hoping to get my money’s worth, I ordered the stiffest drinks I could imagine and the bartender, recognizing my despair gave me a Jack-and-Coke-sans-Coke and a vodka tonic, (hold the tonic.)&nbsp; After two glasses of virtually straight liquor (I do believe there was an ice cube in the Jack) I was bumbling and ready to go, but I wouldn’t go on stage for hours, after I had sobered-up, dozed-off, and urinated 13 times.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I hate shows like these.&nbsp; The crowd starts off hubbub with energy. Usually they are at the preliminary stages of intoxication. They are bewildered to be at a comedy show (regular people, it seems, do not go to comedy clubs every single day. I know; I was shocked myself.) They laugh at just about anything, save for the poor souls stuck going first or second, while the crowd is still texting their friends directions and staring in bewilderment at the beer prices. &nbsp;&nbsp;The comics who go in the middle of the show have it made.&nbsp; Comics can coast through their sets, a rapt, happy-drunk audience at their disposal.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; It’s during this portion of the show, the wheelhouse I call it, that I sit in the corner room, drunk and antsy and desperate. Desperate to get on stage while the energy is still high, desperate to deliver my jokes to a crowd that I could kill. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I go on stage just after 12:30 am, or in Gregory-Standard-Time, five hours before I need to be up for work the next morning.&nbsp; This is no longer the wheelhouse.&nbsp; They are no longer, happy, Opening-Day buzzed; they are miserable mid-August-Kansas-City-Royals-fan shitfaced. &nbsp;They have suffered (and I do believe that word to be appropriate here) through two dozen amateur comedians doing seven-minute sets laden with masturbation jokes. No one is really pays attention during my set, save for one intoxicated woman up front who may or may-not have wanted to sleep with me. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Earlier in the evening, while running a 10K between the comedian’s standing room and the toilet, I continually encountered a sloshed college girl who took every opportunity to make pleasantries. &nbsp;I never pick up on things, and figured she was just being drunk-friendly with everyone, until she cornered me by the bar and talked my ear off. At one point she put her hand gently on my shoulder as she laughed. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Uh oh. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Now I found myself in the awkward position of having to tell sloshed college girl that I have a girlfriend and want nothing to do with her. I’ve always been bad this maneuver. &nbsp;I never know where to sneak this info into the conversation.&nbsp; Usually I try to pick up on any bait which I could segue way naturally into an anecdote about my girlfriend. (I’m terrible at this; in my younger days it has taken me months. This is one of the reasons I look forward to marriage because then I can just scratch my forehead vigorously with my ring finger until the girl leaves me alone.) <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I couldn’t find any gateway and I was beginning to get desperate.&nbsp; I was going to take anything I could get, maybe blurt out something like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh I see you have jeans on. My girlfriend just bought some new jeans a couple months ago </i>or something like that when sloshed college girl gave me an opportunity. She found out I was from <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city> and coyly said that we couldn’t be friends anymore because she was a Yankees fan and then wallah! a window.&nbsp; I let her know that my girlfriend is a Yankees fan and we get along just splendidly.&nbsp; Sloshed college girl doesn’t notice or at least doesn’t acknowledge and went right on. I am left with only one option: I tell her I need to go the bathroom and I hide on the toilet.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I didn’t see sloshed college girl again until she was my only fan and it was almost one in the morning.&nbsp; I did my set, the usual stuff and then went home.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">As long as I’ve broached the subject allow me to ramble. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I have this theory. I think being in a committed, monogamous relationship is similar to being a committed vegetarian. Here’s my logic:&nbsp; I’ve been a vegetarian for over two years and I no longer crave meat. I’m often say that if a cheeseburger and a pile of cocaine were placed in front of me with a gun pressed to my head, I would grab a rolled-up dollar bill and a credit card and get to work, Mia Wallace style.&nbsp; And I mean it. The thing is I used to love meat. I would salivate over the prospect of a mid-evening bacon-cheeseburger. It’s not as if I’ve forgotten how delicious cheeseburgers are, it’s just that I made a conscience decision to not eat them, and I enjoy being a vegetarian enough to not eat the burger. After a couple years, a cheeseburger no longer looks appetizing. I would most-certainly vomit if I ate one. &nbsp;It’s the same thing with being in a monogamous relationship. It’s not that I don’t notice other women are attractive or sexy, it’s that I’ve decided to commit to one woman, and the relationship is way-too wonderful and means way-too much for me to screw it up by, I dunno, eating the woman. And after a period of time, other women don’t look so attractive, and I would assuredly vomit if I made out with one. &nbsp;&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">It’s a pretty nifty theory right?&nbsp; It is, but it is essentially flawed, because it doesn’t take into account that in the two-plus years I’ve been a veggie, not once has a cheeseburger approached me, lettuce hanging out and buns exposed, and begged me to eat it.&nbsp; There isn’t much risk of confronting temptation beyond the smell of a random summer barbeque. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">So I guess the question then becomes, if a gun were pressed against my head and in front of me sat a cheeseburger and a willing beautiful woman, which choice would I make? Oh darling, it’s easy. I would eat the cheeseburger. &nbsp;I would eat it with the bacon topping and the buffalo-chicken-kickers side. I would eat them all and never regret it. I promise. &nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-25615847382190140522010-05-10T19:20:00.005-04:002010-05-10T19:45:22.196-04:00The First Six Months (C-.)<div class="MsoNormal">After work a colleague and I wait for the subway home. He lives on 175<sup>th</sup>, mere three stops away. On my way to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Crown</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Heights</st1:placetype></st1:place>, I look forward to a 90-minute commute home. Every day. &nbsp;As the A train approaches the Dykman St stop, barreling ahead so fast it looks like it hasn’t the slightest intention to stop, my friend turns to me and says, “every time the train goes by I wonder what it would be like to jump right in front of it,” and I nod in recognition, because I know what he means.&nbsp; I’d say I even consider it ever so slightly, wondering what would happen to my body as it hit the scorching train; wondering if it would bounce around the track like a rampant flesh pinball, or if it would simply fall to the side and be dragged limp and lifeless, like the bodies of so many cell phone-retrieving idiots. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve been in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">New York City</st1:city></st1:place> six months now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">These are the thoughts that now inhabit my mind and I blame the Big Apple. When people ask how <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> is going (as if I have some sort of influence over the city as a whole) I usually answer with this anecdote. If nothing else, it ensures they will stop asking.&nbsp; Because when you’re not doing all that great, it kinda sucks to talk about it.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">(Let me explain however, that I harbor no actual suicidal fetishes, even ones so spectacular. I don’t actually want to jump in front of the train. In fact, as a staunch atheist, I am inclined to a pursuit of immortality. I would gladly drink deep from the fountain of youth, and in time would get over the inexorable deaths of my friends and family. I would regard their passing with a kind of reserved acceptance, similar to how I will feel when T<i>he Simpson</i>s are finally canceled.&nbsp; So please, no worrying.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> City-wise, and by extension life-wise, I’m doing super. &nbsp;A+&nbsp;across the board. (With the notable exception of my savings account, which is gone.) &nbsp;Comedy-wise though, it’s been much rougher. I’m thinking a C-, and only because the professor rounded up from a D+ after I cried in her office. (Did that in college) &nbsp;&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 390.75pt;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 390.75pt;">The main problem I have is trying to quench that inner voice that keeps telling me I may have done a lot better for myself and my comedy career had I stayed in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>.&nbsp; I was making ground there, making a name for myself, and plenty of comics have made it via <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>. The voice says I gave up on <st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city> prematurely, that I completely blew it when I tried moving to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>.&nbsp; I hate that fucking voice.&nbsp; That asshole can suck it, because he always conveniently forgets that I lived in my mother’s basement and spent most of my time cleaning up the splattered excrement of mentally-challenged adults. Still, it’s tough thinking about how much better I was doing only this time last year. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know there are comics out there who have been working the mic scene for years. They still pay 5 dollars at 5 in the afternoon, still drag their friends to bringers at 50 dollars a head in the hope a booker will see their set and offer them their chance, and they keep going, head down in the wind. It’s incredible. I am completely drained already, and I’m still watching the same basketball season that started when I lived in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:place></st1:state>.&nbsp; I cannot give up though, I have given up so much and spent - get ready for this - close to 7,000 dollars to live here 180 days, to call it quits now. So I won’t.&nbsp; But I plan to bitch about it frequently and you, as the ever-faithful readers of this blog, will be the recipients of that largesse.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">My entries in this blog have dwindled because my whole comedy-experience is slowing. I can’t bring myself to write a blog about another mic, or tell you about another show in which I did the same old jokes, or tried new jokes that didn’t work, or barked on a street corner for a show that was cancelled. What new is there to report?&nbsp; How often do you want to hear about the unyielding embarrassment of leaving a show to blazing sunlight, or a paid open mic in which a third of the audience was asleep, or fooling around on their smart phones, or masturbating vigorously in a clown costume. (That last one seldom happens, but would be a welcome reprieve at this point.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">If I jumped in front of the A train? Now that would make a great blog.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t quit writing this blog however, for without anything but my shower curtain and my soon-to-be long-suffering girlfriend to bitch to, I will be dead, sanity speaking. I need this and I will carry on (apropos of the name I have just discovered), but I am going to have to find some creative ways to keep this whole thing palpable. &nbsp;Maybe there is a break right around the corner.&nbsp; You will be happy to know that Scoots and I are brewing, and I feel a long-dormant creative potential could soon be erupting.&nbsp; </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I must be honest; not all shows lately have been bad.&nbsp; &nbsp;I will write about these shows, I promise. And like I said, life in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York City</st1:place></st1:city> hasn’t been bad. Sometimes it’s great.&nbsp; If this whole <i>reason-I-moved-here-in-the-first-place</i> thing was going alright, I would give the whole <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state> experience high marks. But as it is it’s a C-, holding on desperately to a cliff of average.<br /><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I hear the vindictive voices telling me I should have known. Not the voices of my parents of course, they are always supportive. (Please send checks made out to Gregory Quinn, <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Brooklyn</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">NY</st1:state></st1:place>….)&nbsp; But I hear those snide voices who knew better. They are completely right: I should have known this would be impossible.&nbsp; But I would like them to hear me. I know how stupid I have been, but I have learned no lesson. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not going anywhere.&nbsp;</div>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-17692279400694442452010-04-27T21:37:00.002-04:002010-04-27T21:43:36.464-04:00For the Remarkably Wise and Handsome. (A video.)<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I’ve been hesitant to put a video on this blog.&nbsp; I could cite a thousand reasons why, but the most truthful is I’ve never liked one enough to tarnish<i> We Could On and On</i> with its presence. And I still don’t particularly like the video I've decided to post down below. Don’t get me wrong; the video is well edited and the quality is good. I just really hate watching myself perform. Hey, I think I’m a pretty good comedian. It’s just every time I see myself in a video, I can’t help but wonder why I wore that stupid shirt, why I didn’t shave, why I’m doing that “gay” thing with my hand, and why I even bothered with that pointless crowd work.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">There are a few unsolicited videos of me on YouTube, none of which I can stomach the nerve to watch.&nbsp; In fact, the only video of myself I’ve ever not hated was of a show I did at the Comedy Studio in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Cambridge</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">MA</st1:state></st1:place> in December.&nbsp;&nbsp; So when I found out that I had to submit a five-minute video to audition for a place in the New York Comedy Contest, there was never any doubt it was going to be of this show.&nbsp; The only problem was the Comedy Studio set was 7 minutes long and if they stopped watching my set after minute 5, they would miss - in my opinion - my biggest laughs.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">So I turned to Scoots.&nbsp;&nbsp; Scoots “Scott” O’Leary, for those who don’t know, is one of my oldest friends.&nbsp;&nbsp; It was the fall of 1991 when I stepped on my first school bus on then way to Kindergarten. And there in the second seat to the left was Scoots, sitting next to an older kid (2<sup>nd</sup> grader) with a plank of wood and a working light bulb. &nbsp;From then on out, Scoots and I were inseparable. From BoyScout camps to baseball games to running across the hoods of cars after doing a powerhour of Goldschlager, we were the best of buds. Real <i>Wonder-Years</i> shit.&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp;After such a history, there was no way Scoots could turn me away when I asked him if he could edit down my seven-minute set to five and make it seem natural.&nbsp; Well, Scoots succeeded and this is the result.&nbsp; <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">I submitted this to the New York Comedy Contest application page earlier. I will be sure to let you know the results. For those who can’t wait for the result, the answer is no, I was not accepted in the contest.&nbsp; I hope I didn’t ruin the surprise. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><b>From December 3, 2009. For consideration by the (remarkably wise and handsome) judges of the New York Comedy Contest.</b>&nbsp;<o:p></o:p></span></div><br /><br /><br /><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Kt95PsZY_Gk&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Kt95PsZY_Gk&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-58574545045311642062010-04-24T19:13:00.003-04:002010-04-26T06:15:32.417-04:00A Tiny Love Song.I got myself a haircut at this little barber shop in Inwood yesterday, right on the corner of Dykman and Nagle. They even shaved my beard with a straight blade, Sweeny-Todd Style. The barber spoke barely any English, but we were able to communicate enough to get my hair and beard looking spectacular. <br /><br />Everything is an event in New York; everything is another story. The word mundane wouldn’t show up anywhere in a 500,000 word history of New York City. In Massachusetts, a visit to the salon means a wasted hour at SuperCuts in the shopping plaza; in New York, a haircut means a middle-aged Puerto Rican with a straight-blade holster who takes periodic breaks to hip-hop dance with the other barbers. [That is 100 percent true.] <br /><br />Visitors to New York and specifically Manhattan often have the same exasperated reaction: <i>It was nice to visit, but I could never live there.</i> They find New York City Way to crowded or Way to expensive or Way to vomit-and-garbage smelling. They report this back to their cozy suburbanites and go on extolling the many virtues of small-town living, presumably ignoring the rampant boredom and/or methamphetamine addiction. Before moving here several months back, I was guilty of similar shortsightedness. And believe me, there are times when I can not take the congestion, the 12-dollar beers, or the constant, omni-present smell of urine. I walk around Manhattan literally salivating at the idea of living anywhere else, and then I see people having sex in the park at ten in the morning and I feel a little better. [Also 100 percent true. It’s been a weird few weeks since my last post.] <br /><br />A lot of times I hate living here, but I never, ever regret moving here. I think everyone should be required to live in New York City once, for two years, preferably at a time when they are young, idealistic and broke. For sure, they will all leave old, hopeless and broke but they will be wise. They will go back home unafraid and unimpressed. They will dread getting their haircut. <br /><br />They can come here to follow their dreams and they will be ridiculed and they will probably fail. But its better they follow their dreams here then back home because it’s so much harder in New York. When they fail here they have failed among the best, and that’s better then the failures who never left town. Be proud of failing here. You’ve made it. Even if you’re booed off stage every night, you’re booed off a New York City stage. Back home they think just being here is success. Back home, you’re famous. <br /><br />I was doing much better at this in Boston, but then again I was in Boston. I was dreaming of being here. And now I’m here in New York and I’m treading water, tiring out. Eventually I’ll sink and that’ll be OK. A tiny fish in a giant, giant ocean.The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-71949703899665472492010-04-12T22:43:00.000-04:002010-04-12T22:43:45.191-04:00The Year of Living Desperately.Of all the sure-fire ways to get famous, I’ve discovered one that is surely the sure-firest. All you do is think of some routine, some anachronistic cultural ritual, some ridiculous pursuit, and do it every day for a preordained period of time, preferably a year. Then when you’re done write a book about it, or produce a documentary of it, or - to considerably lesser extent - blog about it, and wallah! You are now famous, or at the very least adorning advertisements on the subway. <br /><br />That’s all you gotta do. It will literally work every time. It started with Morgan Spurlock, a Fu-Manchu-ed nobody who decided to film himself eating McDonalds every day and became famous while also losing the ability to bang his girlfriend. Mr. Spurlock and his “mission” became a national talking-point, spawned a TV show and even convinced McDonalds to change their dinner menu. <br /><br /><i>Super Size Me</i> is hardly the only example of purposeful, documented excess. Journalist A. J. Jacobs practically lives his entire life this way. Among various other pursuits throughout his life, Jacobs spent in entire year following every rule of the Bible as literally and faithfully as possible, documenting it all in his 2007 memoir, <b>The Year of Living Biblically. </b>This includes such tasty tenants as stoning adulterers and sacrificing animals. The book was a bestseller, and has since been optioned by Brad Pitt’s movie company to become a feature film. There are plenty of crazed eccentrics who underwent such an ordeal and wrote about their experience. There’s Robyn Okrant’s <b>Living Oprah: My One-Year Experiment to Walk the Walk of the Queen of Talk.</b> (All those retched books!) There’s Ed Dobson’s <b>The Year of Living Like Jesus</b> (Little known Jesus-fact: He had terrible Athlete’s foot) and there’s Homer Glumplett’s <b>The Year of Living Maury Povich-ly: One Man’s Attempt to Deny any Physical Resemblance to All His Kin.</b> (Totally made up by me.) <br /><br />Well, you know, yours truly isn’t above shamefully leeching on to any an all socio/pop phenomena for personal gain. So it is here I declare I will be going under a strenuous, completely illogical journey and then subsequently documenting it here and subsequently becoming famous and being asked on Oprah or at the they very least Craig Ferguson. The only problem is coming up with an interesting quest. This is where I will need your help, faithful, sexy readers. <br /><br />I do have some ideas. I would like my quest to be distinctly New York, partly because I want to maintain the theme of this blog but primarily because I lack the funds to go anywhere else. And while the point of an undertaking of this sort is to be challenging, I can’t make mine excessively challenging because my garbage man by day/comedian by night dichotomy makes it hard to tackle any full-time commitment. And it’s not as if I can stop doing either of those. I’m also not eating meat, so A Year of Living Carnivorously is out. (Although for somebody else, a year of anti-vegetarianism – absolutely no non-animals – would be interesting. You heard it here first if this ever does happen. I’m contacting a lawyer.)<br /><br />So here are three ideas I’ve come up with. My first inclination was A Year of Living Bad Slava, in which I would try to go to every single open mic listed on Bad Slava.com New York City’s finest open mic list (currently about 80 mics listed in New York City alone) and writing about each of them. Logistically this wouldn’t be impossible. I get out of work too late for the 4pm mics, but I could focus on getting to all the late mics and then if I’m really chugging along, I can take a few afternoons off to finish the list. Seems like a noble pursuit, but something tells me many comics have already done this, without giving it a second thought. <br /><br />My second idea was a Year of Living Transit-ly, in which I attempt to ride every single public transit line in New York City. Every subway, every bus, every MetroNorth Train, every LIRR, every PATH train and on and on. I could handle this on weekends and it would almost certainly bankrupt me. But my personal finances are in such disarray that it really wouldn’t make any differences. I don’t particularly like this plan because even if I did it, it wouldn’t be much of an accomplishment. What would even write about? The conditions of the MetroNorth bathroom? No, this one is stupid. <br /><br />My final idea was a Year of Living Pamphlet-ly, in which I respond to and comply with every pamphlet, brochure, and coupon handed to me on the streets of Manhattan. Every hair-braiding, pizza shop, or night club pamphlet I come in contact with, I have to accept and dutifully follow. This one is, in my opinion, the best idea I could come up with, as it would no doubt lead me to hilarious and interesting situations, but it is by far the biggest commitment. <br /><br />Clearly I need your help. Any suggestions would be much appreciated. I recently asked my good friend Scoots, and he was about as helpful as a blind man in an Easter Egg hunt. So anything would be better then Scoots. Let me know any way you like. I would appreciate it very much. Hell, I always do, every day of the year.The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-855961904030135712.post-40415062121817912592010-04-08T19:58:00.001-04:002010-04-10T21:51:15.121-04:00Spare a Moment?A group of younger ladies, dolled up on their way to a night out, walk right by me ignoring every word I say. A couple breaks off the group and retreats to the corner of Bleeker and MacDougal, where I’m standing. <br /><br />“We need to get to Bowery,” says the greasy blonde one, face like a pastel painting. “She needs to refill her Herpes prescription.” <br /><br />“Bowery? We’re on the West Side,” I said. “Aren’t there any closer places to get that?” (I know a thing or two about this.)<br /><br />“Well, can you recommend any?”<br /><br />“Um… I don’t know. There’s a Duane Reade right there. Is it simplex one or two?”<br /><br />“You’re gross. I bet you aren’t a very good comedian.” The greasy blonde grabs her out-breaking friend and walks away toward Bowery in quest of Valtrex. <br /><br />“[Stunned silence]…. Facebook me.” <br /><br />And so it went on. Last week, I finally succumbed to barking for a Comedy Club in exchange for stage time. Which means it’s time for another installment of Fancy Comedian Lingo:<br /><br /><b>Barking:</b> <i>v.</i> <b>1</b>. Standing on a street corner and trying to convince complete strangers to come to a comedy show on a whim by promising them there will be professional comics on the bill. <b>2</b>.Lying to strangers. <b>3</b>. Wondering if you should even bother to ask the old Asian lady or the guy in the wheelchair. <br /><br />Being asked for advice on Herpes treatment options is actually among the nicer reactions I got from people. Most common was the glacial, silent stare, as if to say: “how dare you offer me those free comedy tickets? How <i>dare</i> you?” <br /><br />Another common response was to utilize me as a sort-of human Map Quest and ask for directions. This is a distinctly New York response to a barker; to outright deny what I’m selling but still want me to do something for them. "No, I don’t have time for your shit and just for bothering me, I want you to do me a favor. Where’s Arby’s?"<br /><br />Barking for stage time was inevitable. I really, really didn’t want to do it. But unless I continue to beg my dwindling-group of friends to pay an average of forty dollars to see me do the same routine, I’m stuck. My other option was to enter as many comedy contests as I could, but that route has been one epic failure after another. <br /><br />It’s realLy not all that bad, however. For one, no one is supervising you, so the barker is pretty much free to say whatever the hell they want. It only takes about ten minutes of rejection to stop caring what people think about you. One of my favorite techniques was to take a cue from those infuriating hipsters looking for money for third-world children and ask: “Spare a moment for a stand-up comedy? Sir? All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing!! They do nothing!!” It never works but it usually gets them to turn around a couple more times. <br /><br />That’s the other thing: There’s nothing on the line when barking for stage time; no African child’s dinner depends on your success. It was very comforting to remind myself. It made me feel much less guilty when I would take sporadic breaks to get a slice of dollar pizza or give a handful of tickets to a homeless person to make it look as if I was working much harder. <br /><br />If a person says no, I had no problem saying whatever and suggesting we get dinner instead. Still no? How ‘bout just a couple drinks then? Some Coffee? Come on, I’m a nice guy. You got a boyfriend? What’s your number? By the time I got to the last few questions, the woman was several yards passed me, her gait increasing with every word I said. I amuse myself. <br /><br />When I barked last week I wasn’t alone, which helped. I barked alongside fellow Bostonian comic Emma Willman. It’s inexplicable that I’ve come this far in <i>We Could Go On and On</i> and haven’t mentioned Emma yet (or any of the other Boston comedian friends I miss dearly – that article is coming.) Emma is a wonderful comedian. You probably think I am just saying that, as I have a certain predilection for just saying things, but this one I actually mean. Emma has this one joke - I don’t want to ruin it for you - but it’s about New York City and what it does to the twinkle in one’s eye. It’s great. <br /><br />Anyway, she sucks as barking too, so it was nice to have her there. We both managed to get enough people in to have a show (mostly Englishman for some reason) and we both went on almost dead last. It was around midnight by the time we took the stage. Modesty be damned, Emma and I tore it up, and were leagues ahead of some of the other “professional” comics who got stage time only by reaping the rewards of our hard work. Our time is coming though. It’s not right around the corner, but it’s up ahead there. We’ll get there. <br /><br />Until then, I’ll be at the street corner, hustlin’. <i>Fancy a comedy ticket? How about directions to the club? Some cream for that bothersome cold sore? </i>The Ragged Companyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07683788276794478807noreply@blogger.com2